Lift Mac Cahir Og your face brooding o'er the old disgrace
that black Fitz-William stormed your place and drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure soon the firebrand he'd secure
until he met at Glen Malure Feach Mac Hugh O'Byrne

But me I'm sick and tired of hate I'll never use a sword or blade
and when I hear the beating [bad word] I'll sing a song of peace
my hands be not a dashing fist I won't put my name on your list
I'll try to save my wife and child, [bad word] away to hide

Say a foe is now born, tar and feather me with scorn
Take my land, you heaven-sent, you'll never get my soul though
Bury the hatchet, down the sword, no justification by the Lord
No more feud, I'm tired of war, no following up to Carlow

Can't stand the swords of Glen Imale, flashing o'er the English Pale
The bleeding children of the Gael, beneath O'Byrne's banners
All I see is bloody war and leaders who still cry for more
Sheer madness on its marching feet, the lunacy of war

Houses burnt, wasted land, mere [bad word] in the end
Men of hate, men of war, fallen is your star, low
Down with halbert, fown the sword, no more marching by the Lord
Feach Mac Hugh, I'm tired of war, no following up to Carlow

The marchin feet, they march no more they stand in front of Hades door
All men are slain, the women raped, the living mourn the dead
There is no use to foster hate, this is no way to change our fate
We'd rather change out attitude than sing these songs of war