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;

Movrone! 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 these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows!

O, 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—