Town of Athlone (Bonus Track) Lyrics
| Song | Town of Athlone (Bonus Track) |
| Artist | Karan Casey |
| Album | Rough Guide To Irish Folk |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 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) |
| 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 |
| 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 |
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