We three born of Lugh’s hottest fires
Were tempered tending kinsmen’s pires;
The keening that once drained us pale
Now feeds our lust for vengeance.
We weren’t born for this violent life
But gathered strength through untold strife,
Our spears will reap a harvest great
Of countless wailing strangers.
 

So bow down to the Morrigan,
And stand beside Na Casan mBan,
Unified we’ll clean the land
Of all who try to claim it.
 

Enumerate the crimes of such
Who rape and kill the likes of us
And every wronged Gael will find
Revenge within our blows.
And as we claim the likes of you
Weak soldiers for the Dagda’s stew,
We cackle at the pleas and cries
That ring around our ears.
 

Their eyes all glaze with mortal fright
As we rend their hides with spearpoints bright,
They crumple to the blood-soaked earth
To rot away untended.
And in the war-crow’s churning skies
The sounds of frenzied victory rise,
As we clear our shores of every last
Misguided Roman tourist.
 

For miles around the tale will spread
Of eviscerated Roman dead:
At every last Lughnasadh fire
We claim the warrior’s portion.
So rally now against our foe
Or learn the shame each coward knows,
If you stand with us you’ll know the joy
Of life without a master.

 

© 1998 Amy Ripton/Lanea verch Kerrigan

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