You may sing and speak about Easter
Week and the heroes of ninety-eight
Of the Fenian men who roamed the glen in victory or defeat
Their names on history's page are told their memory will endure
Not a song is sung of our darling sons in the Valley of Knockanure
There was Walsh and Lyons and the
Dalton boys 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
'Tis on a neighboring hillside we listened with calm dismay
In every house in every town the maiden knelt and prayed
They're closing in around them now with rifle fire so sure
And Lyons is dead and Dalton's down in the Valley of Knockanure
But ere the guns could seal his fate young Walsh had broken through
With a prayer to God he spurned the sod as against the hill he flew
But the bullets they tore his flesh in two he cried with voice so sure
'Revenge I'll get for my comrades deaths in the Valley of Knockanure'
Oh the summer sun is setting now behind the field and lea
The pale, pale moon is rising far out beyond Tralee
The dismal stars and clouds afar are darkening o'er the moor
And the banshee cried when our heroes died in the Valley of Knockanure