You may sing and speak of old Easter week r the heroes of '98,
Those the Fenian men who roamed the glen, for 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 Lyons and Walsh and the Dalton boy, 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.

It was on a neighbouring hillside, we've 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 the fence, to where the furze did bloom,
Like brothers all they faced the foe, to meet their dreadful doom,
When Dalton spoke, his voice it broke, with passion proud and pure,
"For our land as we die as we face the sky, in the Valley of Knockanure."

I met with Dalton's mother, who this to me did say,
"May God have mercy on his soul, who died in the glen today,
Coul I but kiss his cold, cold lips my aching heart would cure,
And I'd gladly lay him down to rest in the valley of Knockanure."

The summer sun is sinking low, behind the field and lea,
The pale moon is shining bright far out beyond Tralee,
The dismal stars and clouds afar are darkening o'er the moor,
And the banshee cried when young heroes Dalton died, in the Valley of Knockanure,
Oh, the banshee cried when young heroes Dalton died, in the Valley of Knockanure.