Roddy McCorley

Oh, see the fleet-foot hosts of men, who speed with faces wan,
From farmstead and from fisherís cot, upon 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 at Toom today.

As he stepped out on the street, smiling, proud and young,
About the hemp rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung.
Thereís neíer a tear in his blue eyes, both gland and bright are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge at Toom today.

When he last stepped up the street, shinning pike in hand,
Behind him marched, in grim array, a stalwart, earnest band.
For Antrim Town, for Antrim Town, he led them to the fray;
Now young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge at Toom today.

There is never a one among your dead more bravely fell in fray,
Than him, who marched to his fate on the bridge at Toom today.
True to the last, true to the last, he climbs the upward way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge at Toom today.

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