Feagh M'hugh of the mountain,—
Feagh M’Hugh of the glen,—
Who has not heard of the Glenmalur chief,
And the feats of his hard-riding men?
Came you the seaside from Carmen,
Crossed you the plains from the west,
No rhymer you met but could tell you,
Of Leinster men, who is the best.
Or seek you the Liffey or Dodder,
Ask in the bawns of the Pale,
Ask them whose cattle they fodder,
Who drinks without fee of their ale.
From Ardamine north to Kilmainham
He rules, like a king, of few words,
And the Marchmen of sevenscore castles
Keep watch for the sheen of his swords.
The vales of Kilmantan are spacious,
The hills of Kilmantan are high,
But the horn of the chieftain finds echoes,
From the water-side up to the sky.
The lakes of Kilmantan are gloomy,
Yet bright rivers stream from them all,—
So dark is our chieftain in battle,
So gay in the camp or the hall.
The plains of Clan Saxon are fertile,
Their chiefs and their tanists are brave,
But the first step they take o’er the border
Just measures the length of a grave;
Thirty score of them forayed to Arklow,
Southampton and Essex their van,—
Our chief crossed their way, and he left of
Each score of them living a man.
O, many the tales that they cherish
In the glens of Kilmantan to-day,
And though church, rath, and native speech perish,
His glory ’s untouched by decay;
Feagh M’Hugh of the mountain,—
Feagh M’Hugh of the glen,—
Who has not heard of the Glenmalur chief,
And the feats of his hard-riding men?