O! ne’er on gallant Fenian race
Fell falsehood’s accusation base:
By faith of deeds, by strength of hand,
By trusty might of battle-brand,
We spread afar our glorious fame,
And safely from each conflict came.
Ne’er sat a monk in holy chair,
Devote to chanting hymn and prayer,
More true than the Fenians bold:
No chief like Fionn, world around,
Was e’er to bards so gen’rous found,
With gifts of ruddy gold.
If lived the son of Morné fleet,
Who ne’er for treasure burned;
Or Duiné’s son to woman sweet,
Who ne’er from battle turned,
But fearless with his single glaive
A hundred foemen dared to brave:
If lived Macgaree stern and wild,
That hero of the trenchant brand;
Or Caoilte, Ronan’s witty child,
Of liberal heart and open hand;
Or Oscar, once my darling boy,
Thy psalms would bring me little joy.
If lived, the Fenian deeds to sing,
Sweet Fergus with his voice of glee;
Or Daire, who trilled a faultless string,
Small pleasure were thy bells to me.
If lived the dauntless little Hugh,
Or Fillan, courteous, kind and meek,
Or Conan bald, for whom the dew
Of sorrow yet is on my cheek,
Or that small dwarf whose power could steep
The Fenian host in death-like sleep--
More sweet one breath of theirs would be
Than all thy clerks’ sad psalmody.