In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,
Where many the ructions meself had a hand in.
Bob Williamson lived, 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 none can compare with the Old Orange Flute.
Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in;
He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn.
Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now, boys of the townland made some noise 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.
At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds,
He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads.
'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire
He went with that old flute to play in the choir.
He went with that 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."
Bob jumped and he stared and got in a flutter
And threw the old flute in the blessed holy water.
He thought that this charm would bring some other
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 "The Boyne Water" it freely would
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.
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 it's head,
So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead.
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic.
As the flames soared around it, they heard a strange
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant
"Toora lu, toora lay,
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donnahadee."
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