By Éirinn's Blood

I'll tell you a tale
Of a cruel foreign king.
From England he hailed
With songs his like sing.

Our people can't rest
With no Celts in our glens.
So we sent out our best
To taste freedom again.

And along Her fair boulders
My brother and I
Rode among Her fair soldiers,
A glint in my eye.

We rounded the glen,
I surely did spy,
A band of English men,
Arranged in three lines.

Éirinn's great people
Will surely be free.
For our hearts are not feeble,
And we'll let England see.

For when we charged forward,
And gave the "Hurrah!"
King Henry's men marched onward
Toward the lands of Mac Graw.

I looked to my brother,
And drew my broadsword.
And fear did not bother,
For it's only a word.

As we waited no more,
A great scene did unfold.
Like none seen since or before,
The Romans of old.

But as we were nearly triumphant,
And bore them defeat,
Brazen English trumpets
Rang over the peat.

I felt rather hot,
Though the blood hid my sheen,
As two-hundred did trot
Right into the scene.

Éirinn's men soundly rallied,
But they were too many.
Her glens would soon perish,
In England's great belly.

I looked to my left,
And what I espied,
Was my brother faced with death,
His head postured high.

He blocked a fair swing,
And parried all but two.
And as steel did sing,
My brother they slew.

And though we fell today,
To the men of Lord Peter,
We will break the chains one day,
And our deaths will make victory sweeter.