| In the year of one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight
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| A sorrowful tale the truth unto you I’ll relate
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| Of thirty-six heroes to the world they were left to be seen
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| By a false information they were shot on Dunlavin Green
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| Bad luck to you Saunders their lives you sold away
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| You said a parade would be held on that very day
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| The drums they did rattle and the fifes they did sweetly play
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| Surrounded we were and quietly marched away
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| Quite easily they led us as prisoners through the town
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| To be shot on the plain we then were forced to lie down
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| Such grief and such sorrow in one place was ne’er before seen
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| As when the blood ran in streams down the dykes of Dunlavin Green
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| There is young Andy Ryan he has plenty of cause to complain
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| Likewise the two Duffy’s who were shot down on the plain
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| And young Mattie Farrell whose mother distracted will run
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| For the loss of her own darling boy her eldest son
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| Bad luck to you Saunders bad luck may you never shun
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| That the widow’s curse might melt you like snow in the sun
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| The cries of those orphans whose murmurs you shall never sheen
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| For the loss of their own dear fathers who died on the green
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| Some of our boys to the hills they have run away
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| Some of them have been shot and more have run off to sea
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| Michael Dwyer of the mountain has plenty of cause for the spleen
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| For the loss of his own dear comrades who died on the green |