The Valley of Knockanure

You may sing and speak about Easter Week and the heroes

of Ninety Eight.

Of Fenian Men who roamed the glen in victory or defeat.

Their names on history's pages told, their memories

will endure,

Not a song was sung of our darling sons, in the Valley

of Knockanure.

There was Lyons and Walsh 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, Tho' outlawed on the

moor

And side by side they fought and died In the Valley of

Knockanure.

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.

But e'er [ere??] the guns could seal his fate, young

Walsh had spoken thro'

With a prayer to God he spurned the sod, As against the

hill he flew

The bullets tore his flesh in two, Yet he cried with

voice so sure,

"Revenge I'll get for my comrade's death, in the Valley

of Knockanure.

The summer sun is sinking low 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.