Classic Poem

In the County Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon,
Where many a ruction myself had a han' in.
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade.
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade,
On the Twelfth of July as around it would come
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum,
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute,
But there's nothing compared with the ould Orange flute.

But Bob the deceiver he took us all in,
For he married a Papish called Brigid McGinn,
Turned Papish himself, and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion, and laws.
Now the boys of the place made some comment upon it,
And Bob had to fly to the Province of Connacht.
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot,
And along with the latter his old Orange flute.

At the chapel on Sundays, to atone for past deeds,
He said Paters and Aves 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 for the Mass,
And the instrument shivered and sighed: "Oh, alas!'
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys'.

Bob jumped, and he started, and got in a flutter,
And threw his old flute in the best Holy Water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound
When he blew it again, it played "Croppies lie down';
And for all he could whistle, and finger, and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go;
"Kick the Pope', "The Boyne Water', it freely would sound,
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.

At a council of priests that was held the next day,
They decided to banish the old flute away
For they couldn't knock heresy out of its head
And they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead.

So the old flute was doomed and its fate was pathetic,
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as heretic,
While the flames roared around it they heard a strange noise--
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys'.