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Nugent
Bohem
In
the County Tyrone, near 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 it yearly did come,
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum--
You may talk of your harp, your piano, or lute,
But nothing could sound like the ould Orange flute.
But
this treacherous scoundrel he took us all in,
For he married a Papish called Bridget McGinn;
Turned Papish himself, and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now, the boys in the townland made some noise upon it,
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht,
He flew with his wife and fixings to boot,
And along with the others the ould Orange flute.
At
chapel on Sundays to atone for his past deeds,
He'd say Pater and Aves, and counted his brown beads,
Till, after some time, at the priest's own desire,
He went with that ould flute to play in the choir,
He went with that ould flute to play in the loft,
But the instrument shivered and sighed and then coughed.
When he blew it and fingered 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 put the ould flute in the bless'd holy water;
He thought that it might now make some other sound,
When he blew it again it played, "Croppies, Lie Down!"
And all he did whistle, and finger, and blow,
To play Papish music he found it "no go."
"Kick the Pope," "The Boyne Water," and such like
'twould sound,
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.
At
a council of priests that was held the next,
They decided to banish the ould flute away;
As they couldn't knock heresy out of its head,
They bought Bob another to play in its stead.
So the ould flute was doomed and its fate was pathetic,
It was fastened and burned at the stake as heretic.
While the flames roared round it, they heard a strange noise,
Twas the ould flute still whistlin' the "Protestant Boys."
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