(Written by Martin Furey)
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
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
Sweet silvery Nore river is rolling
Over an Irish soldier’s grave
And the vestry bells are tolling
Over the ashes of his grave
