Clash! Clash! Sing, old sword!
Sing the skirling pipes of battle!
Once again the gleaming Forgail,
Red-haired, passion-throated, shouting,
Leads his clan in reeling combat.
Clash! Clash! Sing, old sword!

Clash! Clash! We are old.
Down the red-mailed sky at evening
Floats the dust of warrior princes;
Down the steel-clad sky at evening
Swings the battle-chant of Forgail.
Clash! Clash! We are old.