Lyrics:

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon
There was many a ructions that 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 old flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But nothing compare with the Old Orange Flute

Toora-loo, Toora-loo!
Sure, it's 6 miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

Ah but Bob, the deceiver, sure he took us all in
And he married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now, boys of the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught
Well he fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute

Toora-loo, Toora-loo!
Sure, it's 6 miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
He said Pater and Aves and he counted his beads
'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire
Bob went with his old flute to play in the choir
Well he went with his old flute to play in the Mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise
Oh, the flute would play only 'The Protestant Boys'

Toora-loo, Toora-loo!
Sure, it's 6 miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

At the council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the old flute away
They couldn't knock heresy out of it's head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead
Now the old flute it was doomed and its fate was pathetic
Was fastened and burned at the stake as heretic
As the flame roared around, sure they heard a quare noise
Was the old flute still playing 'The Protestant Boys'

Toora-loo, Toora-loo!
Sure, it's 6 miles from Bangor to Donaghadee