Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/My Molli Anni
My Molli Anni.
An Irish Ballad.
O pateo tulis aras cale fel O,
Hebetis vivis id, an sed, "Aio puer vello!"
Vittis nox certias in erebo de nota olim,—
A mite grato sinimus tonitus ovem:
"Præ sacer, do tellus, hausit," sese,
"Mi Molle anni cano te ver ægre?"
Ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre;
Vere truso aio puellis tento me;
Thrasonis piano "cum Hymen (heu sedit),
Diutius toga thyrsa," Hymen edidit.
Sentior mari aget O more nantis alter id alas!
Alludo isto terete uro dari spousas anas.
"O pater hic, heu vix en," ses Molli, and vi?
Heu itera vere grates troche in heri.
Ah Moliere arte fere procaciter intuitis;
Vos me! for de parte da vas ure arbuteis.
Thus thrasonis planas vel huma se,
Vi ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre.
Betœ Molle indulgent an suetas agile—
Pares pector sex, uno vimen ars ille;
"Quietat ure servis Jam," sato heras heu pater,
"Audio do missus Molle, an vatis thema ter?"
Ara mi honestatis, vetabit, diuse,—
O mare, mi dare, cum specto me:
Ago in a voc œstuare, vel uno more illic
O mare, mi dare, cum pacto ure pater hic."
Beavi ad visu civile, an socia luse,
Ure Molle an huma fore ver ægre.
Hebetis vivis id, an sed, "Aio puer vello!"
Vittis nox certias in erebo de nota olim,—
A mite grato sinimus tonitus ovem:
"Præ sacer, do tellus, hausit," sese,
"Mi Molle anni cano te ver ægre?"
Ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre;
Vere truso aio puellis tento me;
Thrasonis piano "cum Hymen (heu sedit),
Diutius toga thyrsa," Hymen edidit.
Sentior mari aget O more nantis alter id alas!
Alludo isto terete uro dari spousas anas.
"O pater hic, heu vix en," ses Molli, and vi?
Heu itera vere grates troche in heri.
Ah Moliere arte fere procaciter intuitis;
Vos me! for de parte da vas ure arbuteis.
Thus thrasonis planas vel huma se,
Vi ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre.
Betœ Molle indulgent an suetas agile—
Pares pector sex, uno vimen ars ille;
"Quietat ure servis Jam," sato heras heu pater,
"Audio do missus Molle, an vatis thema ter?"
Ara mi honestatis, vetabit, diuse,—
O mare, mi dare, cum specto me:
Ago in a voc œstuare, vel uno more illic
O mare, mi dare, cum pacto ure pater hic."
Beavi ad visu civile, an socia luse,
Ure Molle an huma fore ver ægre.
Key.
O Paty O'Toole is a rascally fellow,
He beat his wife's head, and said—"I hope you are well, O!"
With his knocks, sir, she has in her body not a whole limb,—
A mighty great sin I must own it is of him.
"Pray say sir, do tell us, how is it," says he,
"My Molly and I cannot ever agree?"
Your Molly and you cannot ever agree,—
Very true: so I hope you will listen to me:
The reason is plain, "O come, Hymen (you said it)
Do ye tie us togather so Hymen he did it.
Since your marriage to Mary now 'tis altered, alas!
All you do is to trate your spouse as an ass.
"0 Patrick, you vixen," says Molly, and why?
You hit her a very great stroke in her eye.
Ah, Molly! her heart I fear proke as 'twere in two it is;
Woes me! for departed away sure her beauty is.
Thus the reason is plain, as well you may see,
Why your Molly and you cannot ever agree.
Be to Molly indulgent, and swate as a jelly,—
Pay respect to her sex, you know women are silly.
"Quite at your service I am," say to her, as you pat her:
"How d'ye do, Missus Molly, and what is the matter?
Arrah my honey! stay 'tis, wait a bit, d'ye see,
O Mary, my dary, come spake to me:
Agoing away is't you are, well you no more I'll lick,
O Mary, my dary, come pack to your Patrick."
Believe, I advise you, and so shall you see,
Your Molly and you may for ever agree.
Notes and Queries.
He beat his wife's head, and said—"I hope you are well, O!"
With his knocks, sir, she has in her body not a whole limb,—
A mighty great sin I must own it is of him.
"Pray say sir, do tell us, how is it," says he,
"My Molly and I cannot ever agree?"
Your Molly and you cannot ever agree,—
Very true: so I hope you will listen to me:
The reason is plain, "O come, Hymen (you said it)
Do ye tie us togather so Hymen he did it.
Since your marriage to Mary now 'tis altered, alas!
All you do is to trate your spouse as an ass.
"0 Patrick, you vixen," says Molly, and why?
You hit her a very great stroke in her eye.
Ah, Molly! her heart I fear proke as 'twere in two it is;
Woes me! for departed away sure her beauty is.
Thus the reason is plain, as well you may see,
Why your Molly and you cannot ever agree.
Be to Molly indulgent, and swate as a jelly,—
Pay respect to her sex, you know women are silly.
"Quite at your service I am," say to her, as you pat her:
"How d'ye do, Missus Molly, and what is the matter?
Arrah my honey! stay 'tis, wait a bit, d'ye see,
O Mary, my dary, come spake to me:
Agoing away is't you are, well you no more I'll lick,
O Mary, my dary, come pack to your Patrick."
Believe, I advise you, and so shall you see,
Your Molly and you may for ever agree.
Notes and Queries.