Letras
In the year of one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight
A sorrowful tale, the truth unto you I'll relate
Of thirty-six heroes to the world were left to be seen
By false information were shot on Dunlavin Green
Bad luck to you Saunders, for you did their lives betray
You said a parade would be held on that Derry day
Our drums they did rattle, our fifes they did sweetly play
Surrounded we were and privately marched away
Quite easy they led us as prisoners through the town
To be slaughtered on the plain we then were forced to kneel down
Such grief and such sorrow were never before there seen
When the blood ran in streams down the dykes of Dunlavin Green
There is young Marty Farrell, has plenty of cause to complain
Also the two Duffys who were shot down on the plain
And young Andy Ryan, his mother distracted will run
For her own brave boy, her beloved eldest son
Bad luck to you Saunders, bad luck may you never shun
That the widow's curse may melt you like snow in the sun
The cries of the orphans whose marmors you cannot screen
For the murder of their dear fathers on Dunlavin Green
Some of our boys to the hills are going away
Some of them shot and some of them going to sea
Mickey Dwyer in the mountains, to Saunders he owes a spleen
For his loyal brothers who were shot on Dunlavin Green