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19
GRAMACHREE MOLLY.
AN IRISH AIR.
As down on Banna’s banks I ſtray’d,
one evening in May,
The little birds, in blithſome notes,
made vocal ev’ry ſpray;
They ſung their little tales of love,
they ſung them o’er and o’er:
Ah! gramachree, my cholleenouge,
ma Molly aſhtere.
The daily py’d, 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! gramachree, &c.
I laid me down upon a bank,
bewailing my ſad fate,
That doom’d 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, &c.
