Man dear, but they're crankin' out the oul' songs at a fierce rate these days. I heard this one the other day and I had to titter to myself, even though it's taking the han' out o' our brothers in the preceptory. But, sure, I'll give it a go, anyways. Jist gi' me a minute to swally down the rest of this wee bottle of Buckfast and take a wee skite o' thon number that's doin' the roun's. (Gulp, drag!)

Here goes!

Bit o' order there now men!

When all besides a vigil keep
The Black's asleep, the Black's asleep
Alas and well may Ulster weep
While Brownlow lies in slumber deep
For years its grim-faced castle stood
To house its grim-faced brotherhood
To fan the flames of bigotry
And put a brake on Popery

The mansion drear has cast a pall
On Lurgan Town since I recall
Within its walls men meet who feel
That croppies must be kept at heel
With banners and with marching bands
They seek to dominate the land
And oul' Dutch Willie they will praise
And on their poles his banners raise

But caught off guard, the Royal Black
Are made a joke behind their back
For from Kilwilkie's green estate
A raiding party came of late
And climbed the walls of the Royal Black
And from its pole cut down the Jack
And in its place the flag of Green
Flew proud and high above the scene

And then a voice like thunder spake
The Black's awake, the Black's awake
Ah, holy God and Jesus' sake
It is a slap in Ulster's bake
They stood and watched without a smile
The Harp that flew above their pile
And though they flew to take it down
The picture's took, the word's got roun'!