| O see the fleet-foot host of men
|
| Who speed with faces wan
|
| From farmstead and from fishers' cot
|
| Along the banks of Bann;
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| They come with vengeance in their eyes
|
| Too late! |
| Too late are they
|
| For young Roddy McCorley goes to die
|
| On the bridge of Toome today
|
| Up the narrow street he stepped
|
| So smiling, proud and young
|
| About the hemp-rope on his neck
|
| The golden ringlets clung;
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| There’s ne’er a tear in his blue eyes
|
| Fearless and brave are they
|
| As young Roddy McCorley goes to die
|
| On the bridge of Toome today
|
| When last this narrow street he trod
|
| His shining pike in hand
|
| Behind him marched, in grim array
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| A earnest stalwart band
|
| For Antrim town! |
| For Antrim town
|
| He led them to the fray
|
| And young Roddy McCorley goes to die
|
| On the bridge of Toome today
|
| There’s never a one of all your dead
|
| More bravely died in fray
|
| Than he who marches to his fate
|
| In Toomebridge town today
|
| True to the last! |
| True to the last
|
| He treads the upwards way
|
| And young Roddy McCorley goes to die
|
| On the bridge of Toome today |