As I rambled out one morning,
It been the month of June,
I strayed into an old church yard,
To view another's tomb.
I overheard an old man say,
As the tears rolled from his eyes,
"'Tis 'neath that cold cold clay today
Poor Peter Crawley lies."

Oh the grave where Peter Crawley lies
neath the grass grown green.
And underneath poor Peter sleeps,
Because he loved the green.
It grieves my heart to see you there,
A hero once in bloom.
For untimely death that has brought you here,
To fill the silent tomb.

Oh Crawley, oh Crawley,
Come tell to me the truth,
Who went along on that night with you
To clue those lonely woods,
Who stood beside that brave old oak?
And fired that signal gun?
Because you were a young Fenian bold
And died for Ireland's love.