You may sing and speak of old 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 old Ireland's 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.

They took them then beside a fence, to where the furze did loom,
Like brothers all they faced the foe, to beat their dreadful doom,
When Dalton spoke, his voice it broke, with passion proud and pure,
"But our land, we die as we face the sky, in the Valley of Knockanure."

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.