O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn, 
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;  [bad word] with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are 
they, 
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome 
today. 

Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best 
The fearless brave who fighting fall upon your hapless breast, 
But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray, 
Than he who marches to his fate 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. 

The grey coat and its sash of green were brave and stainless then, 
banner flashed beneath the sun over the marching men; 
The coat hath many a rent this noon, the sash is torn away, 
And Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today. 

Oh, how his pike flashed in the sun! Then found a foeman's heart, 
Through furious fight, and heavy odds he bore a [bad word] man's part 
And many a red-coat bit the dust before his keen pike-play, 
But 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;  [bad word] to the last! [bad word] to the last, he treads the upwards way, 
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.