The Old 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 there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.

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.

And the boys in the county made such a stir on it

They forced Bob to flee to the province of Connaught;

Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,

And along with the rest went the Old Orange Flute.

Each Sunday at mass, 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 flutes in the choir.

He went for to play with the flutes in the mass

But the instrument quivered and cried.