Skibbereen

O father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin¼s isle
Her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains crude and wild
They say it is a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell
Why did you abandon it? the reason to me tell

Well son, I loved my native home with energy and pride
Until a blight came oer my crops, my sheep, my cattle died
My rent and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem
And that¼s another reason why I left old Skibbereen

O well do I remember the bleak November day
The landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away
They set my roof on fire, with their cursËd English spleen
And that¼s another reason why I left old Skibbereen

Your mother, too, God rest her soul, she fell on the snowy ground
She fainted in her anguish seeing the desolation round
She never rose but passed away from life to mortal dream
She found a quiet grave, my boy, in dear old Skibbereen

And you were only three months old and feeble was your frame
I could not leave you with my friends, you bore your father¼s name
I raised you in my cÛta mÛr in the dead of night unseen
I gave a sigh, I said goodbye to dear old Skibbereen

O father dear, the day will come when in answer to our call
Each Irish man with feeling strong will rally one and all
I¼ll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green
And loud and high we¼ll raise the cry, Revenge for Skibbereen
And loud and high we¼ll raise the cry, Revenge for Skibbereen

Glenswilly

Attention pay, my countrymen, and hear my native news
Although my song is sorrowful, I hope you¼ll me excuse
I left my peaceful residence a foreign land to see
And I bid farewell to Donegal, likewise to Glenswilly

Some stalwart men around me stood, each comrade loyal and true
And as I grasped each well-known hand to bid a last adieu
I said, My fellow countrymen, I hope you'll soon be free
To raise the flag more proudly oer the hills of Glenswilly

It is these cruel English laws, they curse our native isle
Must Irishmen always live like slaves or else die in exile?
There's not a man to strike a blow or to keep down tyranny
Since Lord Leitrim like a dog was shot not far from Glenswilly

No more beside the sycamore I'll hear the blackbird sing
No more to meet the blithe cuckoo to welcome back the spring
No more I'll plow your fertile fields, a chuisle geal mo chroÌdhe
On foreign soil I'm doomed to toil far, far from Glenswilly

God bless you, dark old Donegal, my own dear native land
In dreams I've often seen your hills and your towering mountains grand
But the last three thousand miles of life separates these hills from me
I'm a poor forlorn exile cast far, far from Glenswilly
I'm a poor forlorn exile cast far, far from Glenswilly

The Valley of Knockanure

You may sing and speak of Easter week and the heroes of '98
Of Fenian men, they roamed the glens in victory or defeat
Their names on history's pages told, their memories will endure
Not a song was sung of our darling sons in the valley of Knockanure

There was Lyons and Welch 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 though outlawed on the moor
And side by side they fought and died in the valley of Knockanure

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

O no, no one can seal his fate, young Welch has broken through
With a prayer to God he spurned the sod as oer the hills he flew
A bullet tore his flesh in two, he cried with voice so sure--
Revenge I'll get for my comrades yet in the valley of Knockanure

Well the summer sun is sinking low beneath the hills and trees
The pale moonlight is shining bright far off beyond Tralee
The clouds afar are rising far way off beyond the moor
And the banshee cried when dalton died in the valley of Knockanure

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