The Old Orange Flute

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon
There was many the ructions meself had a han’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 with his flute to the sound of a drum
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there’s none can compare with the old orange flute

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it’s six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

Now Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in
He married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now, the boys of the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his old orange flute

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it’s six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
Said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till after some time at the priest’s own desire
He went with the old flute to play in the choir
He went with the old flute for to play for the mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas
And try though he would, though it made a great noise
The flute would play only “The Protestant Boys”

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it’s six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

Bob jumped and he started and got in a flutter
And threw the old flute in the blessed holy water
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound
When he tried it again, it played “Croppies Lie Down”
Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow
To play Papish music he found it no go
“Kick The Pope” and “Boyne Water” it freely would sound
But one Papish squeak in it couldn’t be found

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it’s six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

At the council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the old flute away
They couldn’t knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead
Now, the old flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
‘Twas fastened and burned at the stake as heretic
As the flames soared around it they heard a strange noise
‘Twas the old flute still whistling “The Protestant Boys”

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it’s six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee