Oh, see how the mist lies over the field:
The morning of battle is come.
Soft in the glen there's the muffled sound of men,
and the murmur of a battle drum.

Now the light of the sun spreads over the hill;
It scatters the mist from the green,
And there in the clear come the warriors of An Tir
Their black and golden banner can be seen.

CHORUS:

Fill our cups with ale or wine or beer;
We will stand together, never fear;
And we'll drink down a toast to the brave and bonny host
That fights for the banner of An Tir.

O, see them advance as a wall of steel,
Each man with his sword and his shield
Now they charge with a cheer, for the honor of An Tir
To win or to die upon the field.

CHORUS

By many a fire there's a lady fair,
Who waits for her love to return;
Her needle's in her threads, or she's baking of the breads,
And dreaming of the touch for which she yearns.

CHORUS

To the crest of the hill fight the brave and the bold,
Where the slain thickly lie on the field;
Now, alone in the clear, stand the warriors of An Tir,
And the foeman at last is forced to yield.

CHORUS

O, strike up the lute, all ye minstrels,
Whose skill is renowned far and wide;
Come tell us again of the mighty band of men
Who carried the battle for our side.

CHORUS