You may sing or speak about Easter week or the heroes of Ninety-eight
Fenian men who roamed the glen for vict'ry or defeat
Their names on history's page are told, their memories will endure
Not a song was sung about three young men 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
bold they did uphold, tho' outlawed on the moor
And side by side they fought and died in the Valley of Knockanure.
was on a neighbouring hillside we listened in hushed dismay
In every house, in every town a young girl knelt to pray
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
"Oh, revenge I'll get for my
comrades' deaths in the valley of Knockanure."
The summer sun is sinking low behind the field and lea
moon light is shining bright far off beyond Tralee
The dismal stars and the clouds afar are darkening o'er the moor
the Banshee cried when young Dalton died in the Valley of Knockanure.