| 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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| Thirty-six heroes to the world they were left to be seen
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| By a false information were shot on Dunlavin Green
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| Bad luck to you, Saunders, for you did their lives betray
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| You said a parade would be held on that very same day
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| Our drums, they did rattle, our fifes, they did sweetly play
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| Surrounded we were and privately marched away
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| Quite easy they led us like prisoners through the town
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| To be shot on the plain, we first were forced to kneel down
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| Such grief and such sorrow were never before there seen
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| When the blood ran in the streams down the dykes of Dunlavin Green
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| There is young Matty Farrell who has plenty of cause to complain
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| Likewise the two Duffys who were shot down upon the plain
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| Young Andy Ryan, his mother distracted will run
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| For the loss of her darling, her only beloved son
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| Some of our boys to the hills, they are going away
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| Some of them shot and more of them going to sea
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| Michael Dwyer in the mountains to Saunders, he owes a spleen
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| For loss of his brothers who were shot on Dunlavin Green
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| Bad luck to you, Saunders, bad luck may you never shun
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| May the widow’s curse melt you like snow in the noonday sun
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| Cries of the orphans, their murmurs you cannot screen
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| For the loss of their fathers who were shot on Dunlavin Green
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| 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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| Thirty-six heroes to the world they were left to be seen
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| By a false information were shot on Dunlavin Green |