Avancing and rightful,
the swift sword of Arryn,
On him who the brave sons of Ushna betrayed,
For every fond eye which he wakened a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall be for her blade.
By
the red cloud which hung over Conor's dark dwelling,
When Ullan's three champions lay sleeping in gore,
By the billows of Hoar,
which though often high-swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore,
I swear to avenge them,
no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent,
the maiden unwed,
Our vows shall be mute,
and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance be wreaked on a murderer's head.
Yes,
monarch,
though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall,
Though sweet are our friendships,
our hopes and affections,
Revenge on a
tyrant is sweetest of all.