;Roddy McCorley
;Ethna Carbery

 
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 Oh, see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn
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 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
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 For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
 
 
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 Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young
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 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
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 As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
 
 
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 When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
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 Behind him marched, in grim array, an earnest stalwart band
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 To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray
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 But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today
 
 
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 There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
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 Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today
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 True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way
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 And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today