Our Whole World

The Valley Of Knockanure

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You may sing or speak about Easter Week or the heroes of Ninety-Eight
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Those Fenian men who roamed the glen for victory or defeat
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Their names on history's page are told, their memory will endure
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Not a song was sung of our darling sons in the valley of Knockanure

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There was Walsh and Lyons and the Dalton boy, they were young and in their prime
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They rambled to a lonely spot where the Black and Tans did hide
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The Republic bold they did uphold though outlawed on the moor
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And side by side, they fought and died in the valley of Knockanure

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It was on a neighbouring hillside we listened in hushed dismay
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In every house, in every town, a young girl knelt to pray
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They're closing in around them now, with rifle fire so sure
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And Lyons is dead and young Dalton's down in the valley of Knockanure

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But ere the guns could seal his fate, young Walsh had broken through
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With a prayer to God, he spun the sod as against the hill he flew
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And the bullets cut his flesh in two, still he cried with voice so sure
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"Oh, revenge I'll get for my comrades' deaths in the valley of Knockanure."

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The summer sun is sinking now behind the field and lea
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The pale moonlight is shining bright far off beyond Tralee
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The dismal stars and the clouds afar are darkening o'er the moor
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And the banshee cried when young Dalton died, in the valley of Knockanure