Dear
to Uibh Laoghaire
is the sport of the chase,
The joy of the hunt is in the blood of the
race
Her fowlers and fishers in sportsmanlike
style,
Always return with something worth while.
Prince of the tribe with a countryside
fame,
Is Denis, the Blacksmith, of accurate aim,
With vision as sharp as the eagle's keen
sight,
Every shot finds its mark on the ground or
in flight.
The trail of the otter or badger he'll
find,
And haunts of the fishes of every kind,
The woodcock and snipe to their coverts
he'll trace,
And at call of the grouse you'll see joy on
his face.
As the teal and the mallard are passing
in flight,
To the reeds and the marshes for shelter by
night,
He will tell you their numbers and which is
the drake,
And know where to find them at dawn by the
lake.
In the smithy he is expert as Vulcan of
old,
The ring of his anvil like Angelous tolled,
And round him his neighbours delight in the
tales,
Of his sporting adventures on mountains and
dales.
By nature a fisherman, gentle and kind,
He leaves all disciples of Walton behind,
Though he shod many horses from Cork to
Gougane,
He forged his best sets for the Capaillín
Bán.