And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,
Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants—
’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?
The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet you can give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!