Where manys a ruction meself had a hand in,
Bob Williamson lived there, 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 on his flute to the sound of a drum,
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute,
But there's nothing can sound like the old orange flute.

But this treacherous old scoundrel, he took us all in,
For he married a papish called Bridget McGinn,
Turned papish himself and forsook the old cause,
The gave us our freedom, religion and laws.

Now the boys in the town, they made some noise upon it,
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught,
He flew with his with and his fixings to boot,
And along with the others, his old orange flute.

At chapel on Sundays, to atone for past deeds,
He'd say paters and avés and counted his beads,
Till after some time, at the priest's own desire,
He went with his old flute to play in the choir.

He went with his old flute to play in the loft,
But the instrument shivered and cried, oh alas,
When he blew it and played it, it made a strange noise,
For the flute would play only 'The Protestant Boys'.

Bob jumped up and started and got in a flutter,
And he dropped the old' flute in the blessed holy water,
He thought, now it might make some other sound,
But he played it again, it played 'Croppies Lie Down'.

And though he did whistle and finger and blow,
To play papish music he found it no-go,
'Kick the Pope', 'The Boyne Water' and such it would sound,
But one papish tune, sure could never be found.

Too-ra-loo, too-ra-lay,
Sure it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee,
Too-ra-loo, too-ra-lay,
Sure it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.