Twas the feast of St. Patrick, by the dawn of the day,
The hills of Tyrconnell stood somber and grey,
When the first light of morning illumined the sky,
Four brave Irish soldiers were led forth to die.

Three left their loved homes in Kerry's green vales,
And one came from Derry to fight for the Gaels,
But instead of true friends, they met traitors and foe,
And uncoffined were laid to the woods of Drumboe.

Four Republican soldiers were dragged from their cells,
For months they had suffered while torments like hells,
No mercy they asked from their pitiless foe,
And no mercy was shown by the thugs at Drumboe.

The church bells rang out in the clear morning air,
To summon the faithful to penance and prayer,
When a crash from the woodlands struck terror and woe,
Was the death knell of Dawly, shot dead at Drumboe.

That Tyrconnell ne'er boast of her honour and fame,
All the waters of Finn could not wash out her shame,
While the Finn and the Swilly continue to flow,
That stain will remain on the woods of Drumboe.