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Annie Moore

As I roved out one evening in the month of sweet July
Through the shady groves and valleys and streams as I passed by;
The small birds they sat mourning one each green shady grove
They joined their notes all with a youth lamenting for his love.

It was on the 12th day of July in the year of '45,
It ne'er shall be forgot by me s long as I'm alive;
It was on that day, that very day, that my love was torn from me,
She was the rose of Belfast town and the flower of this country.

It was on the 12th day of July, Orange arches we did form.
And Scully and his cavalry thought to cut them down by storm;
But all their efforts were in vain, for we would not comply,
And as the cavalry advance "No Surrender!" was our cry.

When riding forth to cut them down we received a mortal blow
You know a stone from David's sling did lay Goliath low!
Then the Light Infantry got an order to fire a round of ball,
It was at that fatal moment that my true love did fall!

A ball it entered in her breast and pierced her body through,
She gently fell and waved her hand, she could not bid adieu!
As I held her milk-white hand in mine, my breast being full of woe,
To see those lips I often kissed now white than the snow.

Annie Moore it was my true love's name, of credit and renown,
She was the flower of this country and the rose of Belfast town;
The Protestant Cause she dearly loved, William's sons she did adore,
and round her neck, e'en to the last, she an Orange ribbon wore!