Molly Asthore

As down by Banna’s banks I strayed, one evening in May,
The little birds with blithest notes made vocal every
spray;
They sung their little notes of love, they sung them o’er
and o’er:
Ah gramachree; ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore!

The daisies pied and all the sweets the dawn of Nature
yields,
The primrose pale, the violet blue, lay scattered o’er the
fields :
Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I adore,
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore!

I laid me down upon the bank bewailing my sad fate,
That doomed me thus the slave of Love and cruel Molly’s
hate.
How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its
core ?
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge! ma Molly Asthore!

You said you loved me, Molly dear; ah, why did I believe ?
Yet who could think such tender words were meant but
to deceive.
That love was all I asked on earth-nay, heaven could
give no more.
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore!

Oh, had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill,
Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green
pastures fill;
With her I’d gladly share my kine, with her my fleecy
store,
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore!

Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough,
I envied them their happiness to see them bill and coo;
Such fondness once for me she showed, but now, alas,
’tis o’er!
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore!

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear! thy loss I e’er shall
moan,
While life remains in Strephon’s heart it beats for thee
alone;
Though thou art false may heaven on thee its choicest
blessings pour,
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, me Molly Asthore!

Molly Asthore by George Ogle.

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