Lift Mac Cahir Og your face brooding o'er the old disgrace 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
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Copy to Clipboard: Lift Mac Cahir Og your face brooding o'er the old disgrace 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
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