As down by Banna’s banks I strayed,
One evening in May,
The little birds with blithest notes,
Made vocal every spray;
They sung their little notes of love,
They sung them o’er and o’er.
Ah! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of Nature yields -
The primrose pale, and violet blue,
Lay scattered o’er the fields;
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore.
Ah! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

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! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

You said you loved me, Molly dear!
All! 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! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

Oh! 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! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

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 shewn,
But now, alas! ’tis o’er!
Ah! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear!
Thy loss I e’er shall moan,
While life remains in my poor heart,
’Twill beat for thee alone:
Though thou art false, may heaven on thee
Its choicest blessings pour.
Ah! grá mo chrói, mo cailín óg,
Is Mailligh mo stór.