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The Old Orange Flute

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In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon, Where many the ructions meself 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 none can compare with the Old Orange Flute. Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in; He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn. Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause That gave us our freedom, religion and laws. Now, boys of the townland made some noise upon it, And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught. He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot, And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute. At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds, He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads. 'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire He went with that old flute to play in the choir. He went with that old flute for


投稿者: PetitLyrics
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