By the Spanish plumed hat and the costly attire,
And the dark eye that´s blended of midnight and fire,
And the bearing and stature so princely and tall,
Sir Cahir you´ll know in the midst of them all.

Like an oak on the land, like a ship on the sea,
Like the eagle above, strong and haughty is he;
In the greenness of youth, yet he´s crowned as his due,
With the fear of the false and the love of the true.

Right fiercely he swoops on their plundering hordes,
Right proudly he dared them, the proud English lords,
And darkly you´ll trace him by many a trail,
From the hills of the north to the heart of the Pale.

By red field and ruined keep and fire-shrouded hall,
By the tramp of the charger o´er buttress and wall,
By the courage that springs from the heart of despair,
Like the bound of a lion erect from his lair.

O´Neill and O´Donnell, Maguire and the rest,
Have sheathed the sabre and lowered the crest,
O´Cahan is crushed and MacMahon is bound,
And Magennis slinks after the foe like a hound.

But high and untrimmed o´er the valley and height,
Soars the proud sweeping pinion, so young in its flight
The toil and the danger are braved all alone
By the fierce-taloned falcon of old Inishowen.

And thus runs the story: he fought and he fell,
Young, honoured and brave so the seanachies tell;
The foremost of those who have guarded the Green,
When men wrote their names with the sword and the scian.