You may sing and speak of old Easter week
And the heroes of Ninety-Eight
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
Tho' 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 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's 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