By trusty might of battle-brand,
We spread afar our glorious fame,
And safely from each conflict came.
Ne’er sat a monk in holy chair,
Devote to chanting hymn and prayer,
More true than the Fenians bold:
No chief like Fionn, world around,
Was e’er to bards so gen’rous found,
With gifts of ruddy gold.
If lived the son of Morné fleet,