The Downfall of Molly Bawn- (BFS) 1797 Pamphlet
[My abbreviated title, full title is “The Youth’s Grievance; or, The Downfall of Molly Bawn” taken from a garland titled My Friend and Pitcher (1797) at the Linenhall Library in Belfast (pamphlet book 1031). See also J. O’Connor. Reference Steve Gardham. It's dated 1802 by an edition (not viewable) in Google books which may be a later printing.
Her name is Molly Bawn Lowery. He took her for a fawn (not swan).
R. Matteson 2016]
The Youths Grievance; or, the Downfall of MOLLY BAWN.-- From My Friend and Pitcher. Lillenhall Library, Belfast, Pamphlet Book 1031, item [9], 1797.
Come all you young Gallants that follow the Gun
Beware of late shooting at the setting of the sun,
'Tis little you know what has happen'd of late,
Poor Molly Bawn Lowry whose beauty was great.
It hapned one evening in a shower of hail,
This maid in a bower herself did conceal
Her love being a Fowling, shot her in the dark,
Which griev'd him full sore he did not miss his mark.
And when he came there and found it was she,
His limbs they grew feeble his eyes could not see;
He rubb'd her fair temples, but finding her dead,
Then a fountain of tears for his jewel he shed.
His heart being full of sad sorrow and grief,
With his eyes up to heaven imploring for relief;
Crying of all comfort I now take my leave,
And follow my jewel full soon to the grave.
He streight way went home with his gun in his hand,
Quite feeble and weak, and uneable to stand,
Crying my dear Father see what I have done,
I've shot my love Molly at the setting of the Sun.
In yonder green bower my love she sat down,
I shot at my darling, which makes me bemoan;
Her apron being about her, I took her for a fawn
But to my great grief 'twas my Molly Bawn.
Then bespoke his Father whose locks were grey
Dear Son I desire you'll not go away;
Stay in your own country till your tryal comes on,
And you never will die by the laws of the land.
Oh I curse on you Rogers that e'er lent your arms,
To unhappy Rawlings who has done this harm;
To my sad vexation I have killed my darling,
The beauty of Ulster and Star of Kilwarning.
In Lurgan she was born and well educated,
But in curs'd Kilwarning my love was defeated;
'Twas little I thought to do her any harm,
Tho' now in cold jail i[n] grief left forlorn.
A night or two after to her uncle she appear'd,
Crying my dear Uncle let my love be clear'd;
My apron being about me, he mistook me for a Fawn,
So ne'er hang my love, tho' you've lost Molly Bawn.