You may sing and speak of old Easter Week and the heroes of 98 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 our darling sons in the valley of Knockanure There was Walsh and Lyons and the Dalton boys they were young and in their pride 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 'Twas on a neighboring hillside we listened with calm dismay In every house in every town a maiden knelt to pray They're closing in upon 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 bloom Like brothers so they faced the foe to meet their dreadful doom When Dalton spoke his voice it broke with passion proud and pure For 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 when our heroes died in the valley of Knockanure