Red runs the dawn on Maka, grey on the king’s cold hall. Blood of my sons on the threshold— hear how the nightbirds call. Chorus: Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul. Once I wore Ulster’s circlet, bright as the morning’s flame. Connor was king for a season— and kept what was not his claim. Chorus: Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul. Three I raised from the cradle, three now lie in the clay. None will avenge their passing, none bid my grief to stay. Chorus: Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul. Wine turns to ash in my mouth now, harpstrings moan low and keen. Ghosts of the hearth are calling— I’ll not walk where they’ve been. Chorus: Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul. West where the White Bull bellows, Maeve waits beyond the foam. Better the wind of exile than the scent of blood at home. Chorus: Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul. Sleep, my sons, in shadow, rest where the cool streams go. The king has lost his honor— and Fergus must let go. Final Chorus (softly): Ride, Fergus, ride from awen, leave what the false king stole. Honor sleeps with the slain ones— and sorrow crowns your soul.
