In the County Tyrone near the town of Dunganon,
There was many a ruction that meself had an hand in
Bob Williams he lived there a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade
On the twelfth of July as around it had come
Bob played his old flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk to yer harp, yer piano or Lute
But nothing compares with the ould Orange Flute.

But Bob, the deciever, sure he took us all in
And he married a Papish called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now the boys in the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht
Well he fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his ould Orange Flute.

At the chapels on Sundays, to atone for past deeds
He'd say Paters and Aves and he counted his beads
Till, after some time, at the priest's own desire
Bob went with his ould flute to play in the choir
Well he went with his ould flute to play in the mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh alas
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".

At a council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the ould flute away
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead
Now the ould flute it was doomed and its fate was pathetic
'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic
As the flames roared around it, sure they heard a strange noise
'Twas the ould flute still playing The Protestant Boys.