Roddy McCorley

O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban
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
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, a earnest stalwart band
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray
But 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; ray
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