Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,
Ye men of ire and brawn,
And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,
To see them urge swift on!
Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?
Nay, for the story saith
Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,
They rode to a tryst with death.
It was over a cliff that was black and sheer
To the vale of fair Glencar