The Ould Orange Flute - The Dubliners

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