| A Cairn warrior dressed in his harness feeling fury and frenzy
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| His silky top had blood stained gauze stretched across his pecks
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| His tartan had lines of symmetry running east and west
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| An embellished shield with an iron face was embraced in his left hand
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| «I welcome thee, o' victorious, I’m skirmishing… at the lift!»
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| «I welcome thee, o' victorious, I’m skirmishing… by the dark!»
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| He rushed to feed the fire
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| As honor gained him a home —
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| He veered beyond the pyres
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| The Son of Cairn sat enthroned
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| An iron shield gaped toward the sky
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| With oak wood and leather backing;
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| Reprisal lead the way to his mind
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| And so it did
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| «C¡ bhfuilimid ag dul amarach?» |
| («Where are we marching tomorrow?»)
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| A shield with an iron face gapes towards the sky
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| The death of a man is never going to die
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| A resolute falcon gawks back at the armor —
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| On the wing, yet on the lifting hour |