In the town of Athlone there’s a young woman walking

And wrapped ‘round her baby a shawl as she speaks

Of the passing of rings to the uniformed soldiers

The price of a ribbon their fortune to speak

Ah 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

Soon would 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

As she lilts and laments and enchants all in hearing

With songs of her people and melodies sweet

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

Sweet silvery Nore river is rolling

Over an Irish soldier’s grave

And the vestry bells are tolling

Over the ashes of his grave

Sweet silvery Nore river is rolling

Over an Irish soldier’s grave

And the vestry bells are tolling

Over the ashes of his grav