The Orange Flute

In the County Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon
Where many's a ruction meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout orange blade

On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played on his flute to the sound of a drum
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there's nothing can sound like the oul' orange flute

But this treacherous old scoundrel, he took us all in
For he married a papish called Bridget McGinn
Turned papish himself and forsook the old cause
The gave us our freedom, religion and laws

Now the boys in the town, they made some noise upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht
He flew with his with and his fixings to boot
And along with the others, his oul' orange flute

At chapel on Sundays, to atone for past deeds
He'd say Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till after some time, at the priest's own desire
He went with his oul' flute to play in the choir

He went with his oul' flute to play in the loft
But the instrument shivered and cried, O alas
When he blew it and played it, it made a strange noise
For the flute would play only 'The Protestant Boys'

Bob jumped up and started and got in a flutter
And he dropped the oul' flute in the blessed holy water
He thought, now it might make some other sound
But he played it again; it played 'Croppies Lie Down'

And though he did whistle and finger and blow
To play papish music he found it no-go
'Kick the Pope', 'The Boyne Water' and such it would sound
But one papish tune, sure could never be found

Too-ra-loo, too-ra-lay
Sure it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee
Too-ra-loo, too-ra-lay
Sure it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee