William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Mailligh Mo StoirGeorge Ogle (17421814)
A
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.