Valley Of Knockanure

Valley of Knockanure
 You may sing or speak about Easter Week or the heroes of Ninety-Eight
 Those 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 our darling sons in the valley of Knockanure
 There was Walsh and Lyons 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 listened in calm dismay
 In every house, in every town, a young girl knelt to pray
 They're closing in around them now, with rifle fire so sure
 And Lyons is dead and young Dalton's down in the valley of Knockanure
 But ere the guns could seal his fate, young Walsh had broken through
 With a prayer to God, he spun the sod as against the hill he flew
 And the bullets cut his flesh in
 two, still he cried with voice so sure
 Revenge I'll get for my comrades' deaths in the valley of Knockanure
 The summer sun is sinking now behind the field and lea
 The pale moonlight is shining bright far off beyond Tralee
 The dismal stars and the clouds afar are darkening o'er the moor
 And the banshee cried when young
 heroes died, in the valley of Knockanure