Clouds darken and dampen My spirit
As My brow bows low
While My eyes see only earth,
The engraining of furrows on My soul.
Feels as though the winds of
one thousand winters
Have hacked away whatever life existed
Within My now battered link
To the world of Donn.
He calls -
But not for Me to follow.
He calls out -
Storms of support for My cause
He calls out storms -
Which feed But dying embers
That grow slowly from the ash
Which had threatened to engulf
And rise -
Rise to flames
Which burn -
Which burn the dead wood.
Onward, yes onward comes the
bellowing cries
Which resounds through the hills
As the stag roars in triumph.
Once again he will rise, a Rí­ of the South,
And with him will rise the hope of the Gael.
Embrace the new with purpose and vigour
Revive the old and condemn Gall Glassa.