| lyric | You may sing and speak about Easter week
and the heroes of ninety eight.
Of Fenian men who roamed
the glen in vict’ry or defeat.
THeir names on hist’ry’s pages told,
their mem’ries will endure.
Not a song was sung of our darling sonds
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 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 |