Letras
One hundred stars are burning bright above the old Slieve Bloom tonight
One hundred snow white horses in the March of the Kings of Laois
One hundred years have come and gone, one hundred journeys round the sun
One hundred blazing torches in the March of the Kings of Laois
In the march of the kings of Laois
One hundred snow white horses, one hundred golden bridles
The silver reins a jingling in the March of the Kings of Laois
Seven royal banners, three times seven pipers
One hundred golden harpers in the March of the Kings of Laois
When Rory Mac Rory Og O' Moore fell with sword in hand
A hungry pack of Saxon wolves came howling through the land
The seven tribes of Laoise were scattered to the wind
But these settlers they would have no peace
While one O' Moore remained in Laois
A shot rang out on an Easter night
A whipcrack volley split the light
Arise arise cried Pearse, cried Pearse
Hear Ireland's lonely cry
One hundred stars are burning bright above the old Slieve Bloom tonight
One hundred snow white horses in the March of the Kings of Laois
One hundred golden bridles, the silver reins a jingling
The scent of gorse and juniper round the march of the kings of Laois
One thousand blue cloaked warriors like a wave on the wild blue sea
One thousand loyal heroes in the March of the Kings of Laois
Five hundred men with purpled spears, their shields of red and golden
Spears and helmets glistening by the light of the distant sun
Five hundred purpled spearsmen, champion every one
What warrior now comes flashing oer the plain
In his chariot of white bronze
Only Masc the mighty down from his tower of stone, be afraid
His weapons trembling in his hands
Hear the shriek of the Morrigan down from Wolfhill, an Bhadhbh, an Bhadhbh
Hear the black howl of the banshee over the plain
The Nore and the Barrow run red with blood, ochon is ochon ó
One hundred stars are burning bright above the old Slieve Bloom tonight
One hundred snow white horses in the march of the kings of Laois
Three druids from the mountain, their grey cloaks gathered round them
No-one saw it like I saw it, it's the march of the kings of Laois
Three times fifty young men in the march of the kings of Laois
There is not one among them but is the son of a king and a queen
But is the son of a king and a queen
A maiden in her chariot proud and wise and beautiful
Drawn by two back horses in the march of the kings of Laois
In the march of the kings of Laois