Thanks to the posters of Mudcat for sourcing this work. From Werner’s Readings and Recitations, Vol. 44.

After Aughrim’s great disaster,
When our foe, in sooth, was master,
It was you that first plunged in and swam
The Shannon’s boiling flood;
And through Slieve Bloom’s dark passes,
You led our Gallowglasses,
Altho’ the hungry Saxon wolves
Were howling for our blood.
And as we crossed Tipperary,
We revived1 the clan O’Leary,
And drove a creacht before us,
As our horsemen southward came.
With our spears and swords we gored them,
As through flood and flight we bore them,
Still, Shaun O’Dwyer achorra,
We’re worsted in the game.

Long, long we kept the hillside,
Our couch hard by the rill-side,
The sturdy knotty oaken boughs,
Our curtains overhead;
The summer’s blaze we laughed at,
The winter’s snow we scoffed at,
And trusted to our long steel swords
To win us daily bread;
Till the Dutchman’s troops came round us,
In fire and steel they bound us;
They blazed the woods and mountains
Till the very clouds were flame;
Yet our sharpened swords cut through them,
In their very heart we hewed them—
Oh! Shaun O’Dwyer achorra,
We’re worsted in the game.

Here’s a health to your and my King,
The Sovereign of our liking;
And to Sarsfield, underneath whose flag
We cast once more a chance;
For the morning’s dawn will bring us
Across the seas, and wing us
To take our stand, and wield a brand
Among the sons of France.
And though we part in sorrow,
Still, Shaun O’Dwyer achorra,
Our prayer is: ‘God save Ireland!
And pour blessings on her name!’
May her sons be true when needed—
May they never feel as we did.
For, Shaun O’Dwyer aglanna,
We’re worsted in the game.

1 Likely an error—reived makes more sense.