Listed Below Are The Words To Some
Well Known Orange Songs, Which The British Media Aided And Abetted By The Sinn
Fein / IRA PR Machine Would Have You Believe, Are Sectarian Anthems. These
are the same songs that offend Republican Residents groups so much . Make
Your Own Mind Up.
THE SASH MY FATHER WORE
Sure I'm an Ulster Orangeman, from Erin's isle I came,
To see my British brethren all of honour and of fame,
And to tell them of my forefathers who fought in days of yore,
That I might have the right to wear, the sash my father wore!
cho: It is old but it is beautiful, and its colors they are fine
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne.
My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore
And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore
For those brave men who crossed the Boyne have not fought or died in vain
Our Unity, Religion, Laws, and Freedom to maintain,
If the call should come we'll follow the drum, and cross that river once
That tomorrow's Ulsterman may wear the sash my father wore!
And when some day, across the sea to Antrim's shore you come,
We'll welcome you in royal style, to the sound of flute and drum
And Ulster's hills shall echo still, from Rathlin to Dromore
As we sing again the loyal strain of the sash my father wore!
The time has scarce gone by boys, two hundred years ago,
When Rebels on old Derry's Walls their faces dare not show;
When James and all his rebel band came up to Bishops Gate;
With heart and hand and sword and shield we caused them to retreat;
Then work and don't surrender but come when duty calls,
With heart and hand, and sword and shield - we'll guard old Derry's Walls.
The blood it did flow in the streams for many a winter's night,
They knew the Lord was on their side, to help them in the fight;
They only stood upon the walls determined for to fight,
To fight and gain the victory and hoist the Crimson high;
At last, at last with one broadside the heavens sent their maze,
The boom was broke that crosses Foyle's shores and James he was dismayed;
The Banner, boys that floated, was run aloft with joy,
God bless the hands that broke the boom and saved Apprentice Boys.
OLD ORANGE FLUTE
In the county Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon
Where many a ruckus meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your lute
But there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.
But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all in
For he married a Papist named Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the Old Cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
And the boys in the county made such a stir on it
They forced Bob to flee to the province of Connaught;
Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,
And along with the rest went the Old Orange Flute.
Each Sunday at mass, to atone for past deeds,
Bob said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till one Sunday morn, at the priest's own require
Bob went for to play with the flutes in the choir.
He went for to play with the flutes in the mass
But the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"
And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".
Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.
He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,
When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"
And for all he would finger and twiddle and blow
For to play Papish music, the flute would not go;
"Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would sound
Not one Papish bleat in it could e'er be found.
At a council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the Old Flute away;
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic.
As the flames rose around it, you could hear a strange noise
'Twas the Old Flute still a-whistlin' "The Protestant Boys".
THE GREEN GRASSY SLOPES OF THE BOYNE
Some folks sing of mountains and valleys
Where the wild flowers abundantly grow,
And some of the wave-crested billows
That dash 'neath the waters below.
But I'm going to speak of a river,
And I hope in the chorus you'll join -
Of the deeds that were done by King William,
On the green grassy slopes of the Boyne.
cho: On the green grassy slopes of the Boyne,
Where the Orangemen with William did join,
And fought for our glorious deliverance
On the green grassy slopes of the Boyne
On the banks of that beautiful river,
There the bones of our forefathers lie,
Awaiting the sound of the trumpet
To call them to glory on high.
In our hearts we will cherish their memories,
And we all like true brethren will join,
And praise God for sending us King William,
To the green grassy slopes of the Boyne.
Orangemen will be loyal and steady,
For no matter whate'er may betide,
We will still mind our war-cry "No Surrender!"
So long as we've God on our side,
And if ever our service is needed,
Then we all like true Brethren will join,
And fight, like valiant King William,
On the green grassy slopes of the Boyne.