Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—
Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!
The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;