Lirik Lagu The Old Orange Flute - Tommy Makem
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In the county Tyrone, in the town of DungannonWhere many a ruckus meself had a hand inBob Williamson lived there, a weaver by tradeAnd all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did comeBob played on the flute to the sound of the drumYou can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your luteBut there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.
But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all inFor he married a Papish named Bridget McGinnTurned Papish himself and forsook the Old CauseThat gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
And the boys in the county made such a stir on itThey 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 beadsTill one Sunday morn, at the priest's own requireBob went for to play with the flutes in the choir.
He went for to play with the flutes in the massBut the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".
Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"
And for all he would finger and twiddle and blowFor to play Papish music, the flute would not go;"Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would soundNot one Papish bleat in it could e'er be found.
At a council of priests that was held the next dayThey decided to banish the Old Flute away;They couldn't knock heresy out of its headSo they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake a
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did comeBob played on the flute to the sound of the drumYou can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your luteBut there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.
But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all inFor he married a Papish named Bridget McGinnTurned Papish himself and forsook the Old CauseThat gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
And the boys in the county made such a stir on itThey 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 beadsTill one Sunday morn, at the priest's own requireBob went for to play with the flutes in the choir.
He went for to play with the flutes in the massBut the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".
Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"
And for all he would finger and twiddle and blowFor to play Papish music, the flute would not go;"Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would soundNot one Papish bleat in it could e'er be found.
At a council of priests that was held the next dayThey decided to banish the Old Flute away;They couldn't knock heresy out of its headSo they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake a
