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4io- THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The burning tear sleepeth upon the cheek of
sorrow, But thy sleep is not the sleep of tears ; Sleep, my child, etc.
Sleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling, May thy sleep never be the sleep of sorrow ! Sleep, my child, etc. |
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. OULD ORANGE FLUTE
Air—" The Protestant Boys "
I
N the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon, Where many a ruction myself had a hand in Bob Williamson lived—a weaver to trade, And all of us thought 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 took us all in, For he married a Papish called Bridget M'Ginn, And turned Papish himself, and forsook the ould 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 Connaught; He fled with his wife and fixings to boot, Along with the others the ould Orange flute. |
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