From The Shan Van Vocht, May 2nd, 1898.

Last summer, when tyranny humbled our standard,
And made us as poor men as ever were made,
From mountain to mountain we carelessly wandered,
And slept every night in the cold, chilly shade.
When fortune directed our footsteps to Slemish,
Whose height made the downlookers dizzy and squeamish,
And there we remained till our troubles were finished,
And made our abode with the Boys of the Braid.

For they, like ourselves, were fighting for Freedom –
They followed wherever their brave leaders led;
They left home and wife when old Ireland did need them,
And in forefront of battle the poor Croppies bled.
The like of the Braid is not in the country,
Nor spies nor informers can ever find trade;
For in your distress they would never affront you,
Nor hint e’en so much you were asking for bread.

Then here’s to yon hill of all hills, lofty Slemish –
I’ll end with a prayer, though ‘tis long since I prayed,
That if e’er Grania’s sons be prepared for a scrimmage,
We will prove that to fight is our favourite trade.
We’ll burst from our lair in her flinty foundation,
And drive every red-coated rogue from this Nation;
Yes, like a strong wave, in our stern indignation.
We’ll sweep their cursed bones from the soil of the Braid.