Wild are thy hills, O Donegal, that growing darkly rise
As if to greet the mist that falls upon them from the skies;
Dark, dark thy hills and darker still thy mountain torrents flow,
But darker still Maolmuire's heart in his Castle Hall at Doe.
And swift and strong thy sons so tall thy country's pride to see;
But oak or ash or young men all that sprung from Irish soil,
Were not more stout, swift, straight and tall than the chief of Clan O'Boyle.
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