The Green Grassy Slopes

(Air — “Red River Valley”or “The Green Grassy Slopes”)

Some folks sing of mountains and valleys
Where the wild flowers abundantly grow,
And some of the wavecrested billows
That dash ‘neath the waters below.
But I’m going to sing 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.

Chorus.
On the green, grassy slopes of the Boyne,
Where the Orangemen with William did join,
And fought for our glorious deliv’rance
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.

Chorus.

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.

Chorus.

The Ould Orange Flute

(Air — “The Protestant Boys”)

In 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 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 took us all in,
For he married a Papish call 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.

At the Chapel on Sundays to atone for past deeds,
He said Pater and Ayes 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,
And the instrument 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 Boys.”

We Soldiers of York

(Tune – “Croppies Lie Down)

We soldiers of York,
So proud of that name,
We wear the white rose
With pride and with fame

We’ll fight all the Frenchmen
And trounce em in gore
As our forefathers did
In the old days of yore

For King and for country
We’ll raise up our toast
And drink the defeat
Of the whole rebel hoste

Down down, Frenchies lie down

Our white rose is lovely,
It’s petals so pure
It flowers neath the sun
Of our Hannovers sure

Our stem is it is strong
But beware of our thorn
Lest by it sharp edge
Rebel flesh should be torn

Our loyalty’s strong and
Our staunch hearts obey
The call of the nation
The battle to sway

Down, down rebels lie down.