It was a quiet Sunday As brethren left prayer; But one thousand RUC men Were waiting for them there.
Freddie Hall, he had the choice That day in Portadown He told his men, go to Drumcree And face the Orange down.
They won't protest to us he said We've done this all before, What Freddie didn't realise The Prods could take no more.
Harold Gracey said "We're,here And here we're going to stay, We have the legal right to walk Down any Queen's highway.
So go back to Garvaghy And clear the road for us, We'll walk with pride and dignity And we won't make a fuss.
But police put on their riot gear Preparing for a fight, And the siege of Drumcree churchyard Began that Sunday night.
They came from every county As word was passed around, The countryside a sea of orange, Prepared to stand their ground.
The support for loyal Portadown It really was immense, Food and drink came pouring in Some even pitched their tents.
As the siege approached its second night The police chiefs they all knew The only way to keep the peace, Was let the parade pass through.
So on the Tuesday morning The ll th of July, The orange walked Garvaghy Road, With heads and colours high.
No more calls for compromise Or trying to appease, The Protestants of Ulster Have got up off their knees.
Fuck The Pope And The IRA
When I was young I had no sense I bought a flute for fifty pence
The Only tune that I could play was fuck the Pope and the IRA.
While The Orange Lilies Grow
0 Thou, who nerved our fathers in days of old.
Grant we, their children, in heart may not grow cold
To fight with courage in this northern land
For what they fought, our own dear native land.
Shall we yield the walls of Derry or Enniskillen's plain,
Where the ashes of our fathers in peaceful sleep remain?
Loud rings the voice of Ulster as she answers proudly: No;
What our fathers won we'll hold, while the Orange Lilies grow!
That their ideals, for which they bravely drew the sword,
May still be ours to keep, we will with courage guard;
For we've done all that men can do to placate our ancient foe.
With every' claim we render their demands the greater grow.
We have our last concession given, the last inch which we will yield
Ere we spring to arms to defend our cause; may Heaven be our shield.
For we've decided, come what may, through happiness or woe,
What our fathers won we'll hold, while the Orange Lilies grow.
How my heart does thrill with joy, ever since I first have seen
All the fertile plains of Ulster, her hills and valleys green.
And what rapture fills my soul when praises meet are paid
To the manhood of her sons and the beauty of her maids.
0, proud I am of this fair land, the land where I was born;
Where liberty is held most dear, and deceit is held in scorn.
Still a greater pride, a greater joy is mine, because I know
What our fathers won we'll hold, while the Orange Lilies grow.
The Hills Of Tandragee
0 listen a while my countrymen and hear my latest news
Although my song is sorrowful I hope you'll me excuse
I left my peaceful residence a foreign land to see
I said goodbye to Ballylisk likewise to Tandragee.
Brave stalwart men around me stood, each comrade kind and true,
And as I clasped each well known hand, to bid my last adieu,
I says my fellow countrymen, I hope you'll soon be free
And raise the Orange Flag proudly o'er the Hills of Tandragee.
No more among the Sycamore I'll hear the blackbird sing
No more to me the brown Cuckoo will welcome back the Spring
No more I'll see your fertile fields and weeping willow tree
Nor raise the Orange Flag proudly o'er the Hills of Tandragee.
God bless you dear old County Armagh my own dear native land
In dreams I often see your hills and lovely orchards grand
And though three thousand miles do lie between yon hills and me,
You'll raise the Orange Flag proudly o'er the Hills of Tandragee.
May peace and plenty reign supreme upon Lough Erne's shore
May discord five forever in Ulster's homes no more
And may the time soon come around when 1 return to thee
To raise the Orange Flag proudly o'er the Hills of Tandragee.
Fot it's here I am an Orangeman, just come across the sea
For singing and for dancing, I hope that I'll please thee,
I can sing and dance with any man, as I did in days of yore.
And its on the twelfth I long to wear the Sash My Father wore.
It is old but it is beautiful and It's colours 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 its on the twelfth I long to wear, The Sash my Father Wore.
For it's now I'm going to leave you, good luck to you I'll say,
And when I'm on the ocean deep, I hope for me you'll pray
I'm going to my native land, to a place they call Dromore,
Where on the twelfth I long to wear the Sash my Father Wore. Chorus>
Whenever I come back again my brethren here to see ,
I hope to find old Orange style, they will always welcome me.
My favourite tune's 'Boyne Water', but to please me more and more,
And make my Orange Heart full glad with the Sash my Father wore. Chorus
The Ould Orange Flute
In the Country Tyrone, near the town of Dungannn,
Where many a ruction myself had a hand in,
Bob Williamson lived - a weaver by trade,
And all of us thought him a stought Orange blade.
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come,
Bob played on the flute to the sound of a 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 McGinn,
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.
At the Chapel on Sundays to atone for past deeds,
He said Pater and Aves and counted his beads,
Till after some time at the Priests' own desire,
He went with his ould flute to play in the choir;
He went with his ould flute to play in the mass,
But the instrumet shivered and sighed, Oh alas !
When he blew it and fingered and made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys.
Bob jumped and he started and got into a splutter,
And threw his ould flute in the blessed holy water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,
But when he blew it again it played "Croppies lie down".
And all he could whistle and finger and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go.
"Kick the Pope","The Boyne Water," and such like it 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 ould flute away,
For they couldn't knock heresy out of its head.
So 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 a heretic;
While the flames roared around it they heard a strange noise,
'Twas the ould flute still whistling The Protestant