"In County Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon,
Where many a ruction meself had a han' in,
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade,
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade.
On the Twelfth of July as it yearly would come,
Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drum.
You may talk of your harp, your pi-ano and lute,
But there's none to compare with the Old Orange Flute."
Haven't thought of that song in years (last time I sang it, I were a Protestant.) (Errors mine, too lazy to hunt out the book.)