Gramachree

As down on Banna's banks I stray'd, One evening in May, The little birds, in blithest notes, Made vocal ev'ry spray; They sung their little tales of love, They sung them o'er and o'er, Ah! gramachree, ma cholleenouge, Ma Molly ashtore!

The daisy py'd, and all the sweets, The dawn of nature yields, The primrose pale, and vi'let blue, Lay scatter'd 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.

You said you lov'd 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 ask'd on earth, Nay, Heav'n could give no more, Ah! gramachree, &c.

O! had I all the flocks that graze On yonder yellow hill, Or low'd for me the num'rous herds That yon green pasture fill; With her I love, I'd gladly share, My kine and fleecy store, Ah! gramachree, &c.

Two turtle doves above my head, Sat courting on a bough, I envy'd them their happiness, To see them bill and coo; Such fondness once for me she shew'd, But now, alas! 'tis o'er, Ah! gramachree, &c.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, Thy loss I e'er shall mourn; While life remains in Strephon's heart, 'Twill beat for thee alone; Tho' thou art false, may Heav'n on thee Its choicest blessings pour, Ah! gramachree, &c.