Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,
His hunting-crop and bag of corn—
His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrush
That sings all day in the hawthorn bush.
Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,
And lick your master’s hand;
I swear no dog of purer breed
Is found in all the land.
Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,
Well do you, hound, uphold