The Dubliners - The Old Orange Flute lyrics
[The Dubliners - The Old Orange Flute lyrics]
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 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 "The Boyne
Water" it freely would sound
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 noise
'Twas the old flute still
Whistling "The Protestant Boys"
"Toora lu, toora lay
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 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 "The Boyne
Water" it freely would sound
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 noise
'Twas the old flute still
Whistling "The Protestant Boys"
"Toora lu, toora lay