| 1. You may sing or speak about Easter Week
|
| Or the heroes of Ninety-Eight
|
| Those Fenian men who roamed the glen
|
| For victory or defeat
|
| Their names on history’s page are told,
|
| Their memory will endure
|
| Not a song was sung of our darling sons
|
| In the valley of Knockanure.
|
| 2. There was Walsh and Lyons and the Dalton boy,
|
| They were young and in their prime
|
| They rambled to a lonely spot
|
| Where the Black and Tans did hide
|
| The Republic bold they did uphold
|
| Though outlawed on the moor
|
| And side by side, they fought and died
|
| In the valley of Knockanure.
|
| 3. It was on a neighbouring hillside
|
| We listened in hushed dismay
|
| In every house, in every town,
|
| A young girl knelt to pray
|
| They’re closing in around them now,
|
| With rifle fire so sure
|
| And Lyons is dead and young Dalton’s down
|
| In the valley of Knockanure.
|
| 4. But ere the guns could seal his fate,
|
| Young Walsh had broken through
|
| With a prayer to God, he spun the sod
|
| As against the hill he flew
|
| And the bullets cut his flesh in two,
|
| Still he cried with voice so sure
|
| «Oh, revenge I’ll get for my comrades' deaths
|
| In the valley of Knockanure.»
|
| 5. The summer sun is sinking
|
| Now behind the field and lea
|
| The pale moonlight is shining bright
|
| Far off beyond Tralee
|
| The dismal stars and the clouds afar
|
| Are darkening o’er the moor
|
| And the banshee cried when young Dalton died,
|
| In the valley of Knockanure. |