GATHERING CHAUNT
OF THE ULSTER SEPTS, IN THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH.
The sword of the Saxon is red on our hills,
And blood has empurpled the tide of our rills;
O'Hanlon, unfurl your banner of green,
And high let the sun-burst of Erin be seen.
O'Donnell, come down from your dark Donegal,
And drive back the Saxon, and scatter the Scaul;
Maguire, come forth with the men of your might,
And red let your falchion be seen through the fight.
MacMahon, let victory gleam from your crest,
O'Reilly, come forth, with your boldest and best;
O'Hagan, M'Donnell, and Derry's bright star,
Advance to the hot crimson banquet of war.
M'Kenna of Treugh, and Maguinniss of Down,
Up, forward, and share in the deathless renown;
O'Dogherty, prince of the wild Innishowen,
Up, up to the slogan of gallant Tyrone.
The heartless invader his banner extends,
And deep 'neath its shade is the woe of our friends,
The crags of Slieve-guillen resound with their wail,
And Newry is red with the blood of the Gael.
We've fish in our streamlets, and kine in our glens,
We've shade in our wild woods, and strength in our fens,
We've men on our mountains, and hearts in our heath,
To welcome the foe to the banquet of death.
Bid Essex remember "the Pass of the Plumes,"
Where the corse of the foeman the valley illumes;
Bid Norris again the proud Sassenagh bring,
To scatter his bones on "the lawn of the spring."
The Eagles of Erin are up for their prey,
And wolves prowl about in the full face of day.
"Dunaveeragh" will feast them with flesh of the foe,
Where Clifford was slain and his churls laid low.
Blackwater, Benburb, and Drum-fluich can declare,
The rout of De Burgh, and the fate of Kildare—
The bells of Armagh spoke their joy on the peal,
Which rung forth the conquest of gallant O'Neill.
The spear of the stranger was broken in twain,
Where Vaughan, and Waller, and Turner were slain,
And oh! it was lovely the blood-hounds to see,
Like Boecachs retreating from "Beal na ath buidhe."
Then, onward, ye sons of the great Clan-hughboy,
Shout back your defiance to bloody Mountjoy;
We've hope in each arm, and fire in each eye,
And resolve in each bosom to conquer or die.