Town of Athlone

In the town of Athlone there's a young woman walking
 And wrapped 'round her baby a shawl, and she speaks
 Of the passing of rings to the uniformed soldiers
 The price of a ribbon their fortune to speak
 Well, their fortune she speaks and she speaks of a river
 Whose silvery barrows and moorlands beneath
 Where a gun battle raged and the hero for Ireland
 Would soon lie down dead, dead at her feet
 At the feet of the virgin in the grotto of Annah
 She sings to her baby in old styles bequeath
 And she lifts and laments and enchants all in hearing
 With songs of her people and melodies sweet
 Chorus:
 Sweet silvery Nore river is rolling
 Over an Irish soldier's grave
 And the vestry bells are tolling
 Over the ashes of his grave
 In the freeborn land of the traveling people
 Lies Nioclas Mullins, the pride of Cullbawn
 Yet unmarked beside him the bride of his union
 Who carried our music in a black gypsy shawl
 (Chorus 2x)
 Over the ashes of his grave
 Over the ashes of his grave
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