Tommy Makem 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.
