Roddy McCorley

See the fleet-foot host of men who march, with faces drawn
From farmstead and from fisher’s cot along the banks of Ban
They come with vengeance in their eyes, but too late are they
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today

When last this narrow street he trod with shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, our stalwart fighting band
“To Antrim town!”… To Antrim town he led us to the fray
But now he marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today

His grey coat and its sash of green were bright and stainless then
Our banner flashed beneath the sun, o’er all his fighting men
But that coat has many a rent this noon, and its sash is torn away
And he who wore it goes to die in Toomebridge town today

Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best:
Those fearless brave who, fighting, fall upon your hapless breast
True to the last, true to the last, he treads the upward way
Young Roddy McCorley, who goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
Young Roddy McCorley, who goes to die on the bridge of Toome today