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92 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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IRISH MOLLY 0.
Oh! who Is that poor foreigner that lately came to town,
And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down?
A poor unhappy Scottish youth;—If more you wish to know,
His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!
She's modest, mild and beautiful, the fairest I have known—
The primrose of Ireland—all blooming here alone—
The primrose of Ireland—for wheresoe'er I go
The only one entices me is Irish Molly 01
When Molly's father heard of It, a solemn oath he swore, That If she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more. He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so— "I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!" She's modest, &c.
MacDonald heard the heavy news,—and grievously did say— "Farewell my lovely Molly—since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro. And ail for the sake of my Irish Molly O! She's modest, &c.
"There is a rose In Ireland—I thought It would be mine; But now that she Is lost to me, I must for ever pine, Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go; And all (or the sake of my Irish Molly O! She's modest, &c.
"And now that I am dying—this one request I crave, Tq place a marble tombstone above my humble grave, And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so— MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly 0!" She's modest, &c. |
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MY DEAR LITTLE IRISH COLLEEN.
When wild flowers wake from their slumbers,
And shake the bright dew from each breast; And Robin pours forth his sweet numbers,
To mate tucked away in her nest; What form noiseless trips o'er the clover,
With step and with grace of a queen. The neighbors all know her and love her.
My dear little Irish Colleen.
REFRAIN.—My dear Irish Colleen,
She's my life and my Queen; As she steps o'er the green
She enriches its sheen; Her voice Is as sweet as a thrush's,
And in innocence peeps thro' her blushes, As homeward she sweeps through the rushes,
My dear little Irish Colleen.
She hums an old song In her hurry
A linnet takes up the refrain; The whole feathered tribe in a flurry
Bid welcome again and again; With cheeks like the morning as rosy
And dimples and laughter between, And lips that might anger a posy,
Responds the dear Irish Colleen.—Cho.
Each land in its maidens takes pleasure
And each deems its own most supreme; But oh, how the Celt's heart doth treasure
His darling of youth's virgin dream. Again when night flees 'fore the morrow.
She trips lightly down the horcen, And blackbird and thrush music borrow,
Once more from an Irish Colleen.—Cho. |
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