| They looked out from the fortress on the hill
|
| There came a single warrior returning from the kill
|
| The spoils of war hung from his horses mane
|
| The bloody heads of enemies that he had freshly slayed
|
| They saw the face, the eyes so sullen
|
| Could only be the young Cúchulain
|
| Thunder rising, thunder rising
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Cities burning
|
| The world keeps turning
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| The son of Lugh MacEithleen knew no fear
|
| For just one blow at any foe to tell his end was near
|
| So many tried to mock this Celtic son
|
| They taunted and they teased him till
|
| He slayed them one by one
|
| And so they came, and so they’ve fallen
|
| At the hands of young Cúchulain
|
| Thunder rising, thunder rising
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Cities burning
|
| The world keeps turning
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Long ago the legend has it
|
| How the mighty Ulster men
|
| Battled with the King Of Connacht
|
| Fighting to the bitter end
|
| No one knew what foolish reason
|
| Caused this skirmish to begin
|
| Was it treachery or treason
|
| Or just the idle threats of drunken men?
|
| Thunder rising, thunder rising
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Cities burning
|
| The world keeps turning
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Thunder rising, thunder rising
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning
|
| Young men are dying
|
| The widows are crying
|
| Thunder rising early in the morning |