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IS HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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MOLLY CAREW.
Och hone! and what will I do?
Sure my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost; And there's no use at all In my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes Into my head;
And 'tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew— And Indeed 'tis a sin and a shame!
You're complater than Nature
In every feature;
The snow can't compare
With your forehead so fair, And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the prettiest star that shines out of the sky,
And by this and by that,
For the matter o' that. You're more distant by far than that same!
Och hone! welrasthru!
I'm. alone in this world without you.
Och hone! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes. When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it In rhyme. Though there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snub lime: And then for your cheek! Troth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. Then your lips, oh, machree!
In their beautiful glow, They a pattern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago; But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience, I'll say, Such cherries might tempt a man's father!
Och hone! welrasthru! I'm alone in this world without you.
Ocb hone! by the man In the moon,
You taze all ways
That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me.
Though the piper I bate,
For fear the old chate Wouldn't play you your favorite tune;
And when you're at mass,
My devotion you crass,
For 'tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew, While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep.
Oh, lave off that bonnet,
Oh else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandherin' sowl.
Och, hone! weirasthru!
Och hone! like an owl, Day Is night; dear, to me, without you!
Och hone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score
That loves me—and more, And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet My wedding all marching in pride down the street,
Troth, you'd open your eyes,
And you'd die with surprise |
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