You may sing and speak about Easter week and the heroes of '98,
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 was 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.

Twas on a neighbouring hillside, we listened with calm dismay,
In every house, in every town, a maiden knelt to pray,
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 e'er the guns could seal his fate and he 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 comrade's 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 where our heroes died, in the Valley of Knockanure.