4
He march'd them all in rank and file,
all on the Irish shore,
Fare you well sweet Molly dear,
if I never see you more.
He pull'd out his pocket-kerchief,
and wip'd her christal eyes,
He says, My dearest jewel,
I'm sorry for your sighs.
But if ever come back again,
and all goodness spares my life,
There is not a woman breathing,
but you I'll make my wife.
My dear, I will convoy you,
as far as sweet Straban,
My dearest, I'll convoy you
as far as e'er I can,
My hand I never will give
to any man but you,
And now you're going to leave me
for the Orange and the Blue.
He's gone, he's gone, and left me,
behind him for to rove,
His name I'll carve on every tree,
through Belanamurry grove,
Please God that he return again
and his consort make me,
I'll prove a faithful loving wife,
until the day I die.
