Oh, gather around me, young folk of the Rosses,
From Gweebarra, and Leitir, Burtonport and Dungloe,
From Lackenagh and Crolly, pay heed to the story,
Of Neil Plunkett O'Boyle who defied Ireland's foe.

When Ireland called forth her brave sons of the heather,
O'Boyle was the first man to answer the call,
The sons of the Rosses, he banded together,
To drive the oppressor from dark Donegal.

For Mountain and Moreland, with despots around him,
Till outnumbered and wounded, a captive he fell,
To the vast steel of Newbridge, a captive they bound him,
But he breeched their stone walls and he bade them farewell.

Once more, on the mountain, still daring, unconquered,
Tis not the false Saxon that's now on his trail,
Oh no, former comrades, like bloodhounds surround him,
To hunt down Neil Plunkett, the pride of the Gael.

How bravely he fought with the four men around him.
Till with all hope abandoned, he turned to his foe.
"Long live the Republic!" His voice rang out clearly.
Their rifles spat death, and our heroes laid low.

They laid him to rest near the scenes of his childhood,
On the shores of Kincasslagh, a spot he loved well,
But long we'll remember, with faith and devotion,
The fate of our chieftain, Neil Plunkett O'Boyle.