I.

The Danes rush around, around;
To the edge of the fosse they bound;
Hark! hark, to their trumpets' sound,
Bidding them to the war!
Hark! hark, to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry,
And their Raven red to dye;
Glutting their demon, Thor.

II.

Leaping the Rath upon,
Here's the fiery Ceallachan —
He makes the Lochlonnach wan,
Lifting his brazen spear!
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown.
Yet worse did the battle frown —
Anlaf is on our rere!

III.

See! see! the Rath's gates are broke
And in — in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
Charging us everywhere —
Oh, never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mor that night —
How little do men want light,
Fighting within their lair.

IV.

Then girding about our king,
On the thick of the foes we spring —
Down — down we trample and fling,
Gallantly though they strive:
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
Went from the Rath alive!