Oh hark to the tale of young Fergal O'Hanlon,
Who died in Brookeborough to make Ireland free,
For his heart he had pledged to the cause of his country,
And he took to the hills like a bold rapparee.

And he feared not to walk to the walls of the barracks,
A volley of death poured from window to door,
Alas for young Fergal, his life blood for freedom,
On Brookeborough's pavements profusely to pour.

When the smoke and the dim of the battle were over,
And Fergal was borne by his comrades away,
And he asked them to fly from that place and take cover,
But he died in the hands of the foe on that day.

God strike from your hands all your hirelings and traitors,
The weapons that murdered our brave volunteer,
God grant us our freedom, the dreams of O'Hanlon,
And lift from our valleys all sorrow and fear.