Follow Me up to Carlow
Lift MacCahir Óg your face, brooding o'er the old disgrace
That black FitzWilliam stormed your place, drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure - Soon the firebrand he'd secure
Until he met at Glenmalure with Fiach MacHugh O'Byrne.
See the swords of Glen Imall, flashing o'er the English Pale!
See all the children of the Gael, beneath O'Byrne's banners.
Rooster of a fighting stock, would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock? -- fly up and teach him manners!.
From Tassagart to Clonmore, there flows a stream of Saxon gore,
Och, great is Rory Óg O'More, sending the loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled, now for black FitzWilliam's head,
We'll send it over, dripping red, to Queen Liza and the ladies.