You may sing and speak about Easter week and the heroes of ninety eight.
Of Fenian men who roamed the glen in victory or defeat,
Of those who died on the scaffold high or outlawed on the moor,
But no word was said of our gallant dead in the Valley of Knockanure.
There was Padraic Dalton and Padraic Walsh they were known both far and wide,
In every house in every town they were always side by side,
A Republic bold they did uphold though outlawed on the moor,
And side by side they bravely died in the Valley of Knockanure.
In Gortaglanna’s lovely glen these gallant men took shade ,
While in young wheat both soft and sweet the summer breezes played,
It was not long ‘till Lyons came on saying time is not mine ‘nor yours,
But alas it was late and they met their fate in the valley of Knockanure.
It was from a neighbouring hillside we listened in calm dismay,
In every house, in every town a maiden knelt to pray,
They are closing in around them now with rifle shot so sure,
And Walsh is dead and Lyons is down in the valley of Knockanure.
They took them hence behind the fence wherein the furze did bloom,
Like brothers so they faced their foe to meet their vengeful doom,
When Dalton spoke his voice it broke with a passion proud and pure,
For our land we’ll die as we face the sky in the Valley of Knockanure.
And there they lay on the cold cold clay they were martyred for Ireland’s cause,
While the cowardly clan of the Black and Tan it showed them England’s laws,
No more they’ll feel the soft breeze steal o’er the uplands so secure,
For the wild geese fly where our hero’s lie in the valley of Knockanure.
I met with Dalton’s mother and she to me did say,
May God be with my darling son who died in the glen today,
If I could kiss his cold clay lips my aching heart ‘twould cure,
And I’d gladly lay him down to sleep in the Valley of Knockanure.
The golden sun it is sinking down behind the Feale and lea,
And a pale, pale moon is rising there far out beyond Tralee,
A twinkling star through clouds afar shone down o’er Cullen’s moor,
And the Banshee cried when Dalton died in the Valley of Knockanure.
Dalton Walsh and Lyons brave, although your hearts are clay,
Yet in your stead be true men yet who will take your place today,
While grass is found on Irelands ground your memory will endure,
So God guard and keep the place you sleep in the Valley of Knockanure.
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