Chieftain of Tyrconnell

Sore misery to Erin, that you spread

Your sails for far-off Espan, Hugh the Red!

But sorest doom that on a foreign strand

Quenched your keen eye and from your falt'ring hand

Has struck down the faithful brand.

Who now for us shall sweep the cattle spoil

In bellowing tumult o'er the foamy Foyle?

And till the steers are driven dispersed to sward,

Hurl back, like thee, the Avenger from the ford,

Hugh O'Donnell of the Sword?

Who now upon the plunderers from the Pale

Shall wreck the fiery vengeance of the Gael?

With sudden onslaught strike the Saxon crew

And smite them as you smote them through and through,

Chieftain of Tyrconnell, who?

Last who like thee, with comforts manifold

Shall keep and cherish sick and poor and old?

For ah! thy open ever-flowing store

Of food and drink and clothing maet galore

Fails them now for evermore.