In the county Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon
There was many a ruckshon that 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 of his old flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But nothing compared with me Old Orange Flute.
Toora loo, toora lay, oh it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.
But Bob the deceiver sure he took us all in
And he married a Papist named Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now the boys in the place made some comment upon it,
And Bob had to flee to the province of Connaught;
He fled with his wife and his fixins, to boot,
And along with the latter went the Old Orange Flute.
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 burnt at the stake as heretic.
As the flames roared around it, you could hear a queer noise
'Twas the Old Flute still playing "The Protestant Boys".
