Molly bawn, white as lawn,
Rosy as the rowan spray,
Had us all in her thrall,
Young and old, and grave and gay;
For her glances through the dances
Such fond fancies o’er us shed,
None felt sure he struck the floor
With his heels or with his head.

Molly bawn, white as lawn,
Sweeter than the sugar cane,
Drops her eyes at the boys,
Never glancing back again.
Some say shyness ‘tis or coyness,
And ‘tis fineness some believe;
But at all, great and small,
I’m just laughing in my sleeve.

For there’s none ‘neath the sun
But myself could tell you why
Molly seems lost in dreams
When the saucy lads go by.
But that reason out of season
‘Twould be treason now to show;
After Lent I’m content
Father Tom and all should know.