The Shaving of Murdoch

Murdoch, whet thy razor's edge,
Our crowns to pledge to Heaven's Ardrigh!
Vow we now our hair fine-tressed
To the Blessed Trinity!

Now my head I shear to Mary;
'Tis a true heart's very due.
Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now
Shear thy brow to Mary, too!

Seldom on thy head, fair Chief,
Hath a barbing-knife been plied;
Oft the fairest of Princesses
Combed her tresses at thy side.

Whensoever we did bathe,
We found no scathe, yourself and I,
With Brian of the well-curled locks,
From hidden rocks and currents wry.

And most I mind what once befell
Beside the well of fair Boru--
I swam a race with Ua Chais
The icy flood of Fergus through.

When hand to hand the bank we reached,
Swift foot to foot we stretched again,
Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs,
Gave us three knives--not now in vain.

No other blades such temper have;
Then, Murdoch, shave with easy art!
Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand,
Thy Victor brand, in peaceful part!

Then our shorn heads from weather wild
Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim!
Preserve us from the sun's fierce power,
Mary, soft Flower of Jesse's Stem!