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The Ould Orange Flute

• In the county Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon
• Where many a ruckus meself had a hand in
• Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade
• And all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.
• On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
• Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum
• You can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your lute
• But nothing could sound like the Ould Orange Flute.

• Toora loo, toora lay, oh it's six miles from Bangor to
• Donaghadee.

 

• But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all in
• For he married a Papish named Bridget McGinn
• Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
• That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
• Now the boys in the townland made some noise upon it,
• They forced Bob to fly to the province of Connaught;
• Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,
• And along with the rest went the Ould Orange Flute.

• Toora loo, toora lay, oh it's six miles from Bangor to
• Donaghadee

 

• At the Chapel on Sundays to atone for past deeds,
• Bob said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
• Till one Sunday morn, at the priest's own require
• Bob went for to play with the flute in the choir.
• He went for to play with the flute in the mass
• But the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"
• And blow as he would, though he 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 into a splutter,
• He pitched the Ould Flute in the bless'd holy water;
• He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,
• When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"
• And for all he would finger and finger and blow
• To play Papish music, the flute would not go;
• "Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would sound
• Not one Papish bleat in it could e'er be found.

• Toora loo, toora lay, oh it's six miles from Bangor to
• Donaghadee

 

• At a council of priests that was held the next day
• They decided to banish the Ould Flute away;
• They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
• So they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
• And the Ould Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
• 'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic.
• As the flames rose around it, you could hear a strange
• noise
• 'Twas the Ould Flute still a-whistlin' "The Protestant
• Boys".

• Toora loo, toora lay, oh it's six miles from Bangor to
• Donaghadee