that black Fitz-William stormed your place and drove you to the Fern

Grey said victory was sure soon the firebrand he'd secure

until he met at Glen Malure Feach Mac Hugh O'Byrne



But me I'm sick and tired of hate I'll never use a sword or blade

and when I hear the beating drum I'll sing a song of peace

my hands be not a dashing fist I won't put my name on your list

I'll try to save my wife and child, I'll run away to hide



Say a foe is now born, tar and feather me with scorn

Take my land, you heaven-sent, you'll never get my soul though

Bury the hatchet, down the sword, no justification by the Lord

No more feud, I'm tired of war, no following up to Carlow



Can't stand the swords of Glen Imale, flashing o'er the English Pale

The bleeding children of the Gael, beneath O'Byrne's banners

All I see is bloody war and leaders who still cry for more

Sheer madness on its marching feet, the lunacy of war



Houses burnt, wasted land, mere destruction in the end

Men of hate, men of war, fallen is your star, low

Down with halbert, fown the sword, no more marching by the Lord

Feach Mac Hugh, I'm tired of war, no following up to Carlow



The marchin feet, they march no more they stand in front of Hades door

All men are slain, the women raped, the living mourn the dead

There is no use to foster hate, this is no way to change our fate

We'd rather change out attitude than sing these songs of war