George Ogle (1742–1814)

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! Grádh mo chroídhe, mo cailín og,

’Si Mailligh mo stoir.

The daisy 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, 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! Grádh mo chroídhe, mo cailín og,

’Si Mailligh mo stoir.