See the host of fleet-foot 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.

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

Up the narrow streets he steps, smiling, proud and young,
About the hemp rope on his neck, his golden ringlets clung,
There was never was a tear in his eyes, both glad and bright are they,
Oh, young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today.

And the the host of fleet-foot 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,
Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today,
Oh, young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today.