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

Three left their loved homes in Kerry's green vale,
And one came from Derry to fight for the Gael,
But instead of true friends, they got traitors and foe,
And in coffin were lead to the woods of Drumboe.

Four Republican soldiers were dragged from their cells,
For months they had suffered by traitors they're held,
No mercy they asked for 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,
Twas the death of four martyrs shot dead at Drumboe.

Now Tyrconnell remembers and honours their names,
All the waters of the Finn could not wash out her fame,
While the Finn and the Swilly continue to flow,
That stain will remain on the name of Drumboe.