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.
- by Alfred Perceval Graves (1846 - 1931), "Molly Hewson" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Charles Villiers Stanford, Sir (1852 - 1924), "Molly Hewson", published [1882?] [voice and piano], from the collection Songs of Old Ireland. A Collection of Fifty Irish Melodies Unknown in England, no. 48, arrangement ; London, Boosey & Co. ; dedicated to Johannes Brahms, August 1882 [text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Mike Pearson
This text was added to the website: 2015-04-08
Line count: 24
Word count: 137