The soil’s as fresh as honey
The finches choir in the trees
Where the flowers grow
Oh the fuchsia that spring in Tralee

They buried a man with his dog
The son sang the widow a song
They’re crying for peace,
In fields of red and green
Oh, what happened in sweet Tralee?

The Irish still drink in Tralee
Their dogs all chained to the trees
There’s a cold in the breeze,
And the hounds they will freeze
Because the men want a drink in Tralee

The children are out grabbing thorns
They’d be safe to their mothers they swore
But they’re watching their das,
And it’s sure they will catch
The curse of the thirst those men bore

Their nails are soil-free
But the hands that serve us aren’t clean
The oaths are all fake,
It’s the money they take,
Agus na Gaeilge, abash by the sea