The Old Orange Flute Songtext
von Tommy Makem
The Old Orange Flute Songtext
In the county Tyrone near the town of Dungannon
Where many a ruction myself 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 there′s none could compare with the auld orange flute
But Bob the deceiver, he took us all in
He married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now the boys of the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht
He fled with his wife and his fixins to boot
And along with the latter his auld orange flute
At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
He said "Fathers and Abbies" and counted his beads
Till after some time at the priest's own desire
He went with the auld flute to play in the choir
He went with the auld flute 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 started and got in a flutter
And he 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 "Proppies Lie Down"
And for all he would whistle and finger and blow
To play Papish music he found it no go
Kick the pope and boil water, it freely would sound
But one Papish squeakin′ 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 its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead
Now the auld flute was doomed and its fate was pathetic
Was fastened and burned at the stake as heretic
As the flames soared around it they heard a strange noise
′Twas the auld flute still whistlin′ the Protestant boys
Toora loo, toora lee
Ah it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee
Where many a ruction myself 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 there′s none could compare with the auld orange flute
But Bob the deceiver, he took us all in
He married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now the boys of the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht
He fled with his wife and his fixins to boot
And along with the latter his auld orange flute
At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
He said "Fathers and Abbies" and counted his beads
Till after some time at the priest's own desire
He went with the auld flute to play in the choir
He went with the auld flute 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 started and got in a flutter
And he 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 "Proppies Lie Down"
And for all he would whistle and finger and blow
To play Papish music he found it no go
Kick the pope and boil water, it freely would sound
But one Papish squeakin′ 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 its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead
Now the auld flute was doomed and its fate was pathetic
Was fastened and burned at the stake as heretic
As the flames soared around it they heard a strange noise
′Twas the auld flute still whistlin′ the Protestant boys
Toora loo, toora lee
Ah it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee
Writer(s): Dp, Tommy Makem Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
