Oh, see the fleet-foot host of men, who step with faces wan,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Bann,
They've come with vengeance in their eyes, too late, too late, are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today.

Up the narrow street he steps, smiling, proud and young,
About that hemp rope on his neck, his golden ringlets clung,
There ne'er was a tear in his eyes, both glad and bright are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today.

When he last stepped up that street, his shining pike in hand,
Behind him marched in grim array, a stalwart, honest band,
For Antrim town, for Antrim town, he lead them to the fray,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today.

There was ne'er one of all our dead so bravely fell in fray,
As he who marches to his death at the Bridge of Toome today,
True to the last, true to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.