Mailligh mo Stoir

As down by Banna's banks I strayed,
One evening in May,
The little birds, in blithest notes,
Made vocal every spray ;
They sung their little notes of love,
They sung them o'er and o'er,
Ah ! Gradh mo chroidhe, mo cailin og,
'Si Mailligh mo stoir.

The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of Nature yields —
The primrose pale, and violet blue,
Lay scattered o'er the fields ;
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore.

Ah ! Gradh mo chroidhe, etc.
I laid me down upon a 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 ! Gradh mo chroidhe, etc
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 ! Gradh mo chroidhe, etc.

O had I all the flocks that graze
On yonder yellow hill,
Or lowed for me the numerous herds
That yon green pasture fill —
With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine and fleecy store.
Ah ! Gradh mo chroidhe, etc.

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 was shown,
But now, alas ! 'tis o'er.
Ah ! Gradh mo chroidhe, etc.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear !
Thy loss I e'er shall moan ;
Whilst life remains in my poor heart,
'Twill beat for thee alone :
Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee
Its choicest blessings pour.
Ah ! Gradh mo chroidhe, mo cailin og,
'Si Mailligh mo stoir.