Here is the Irish version from Patrick Weston Joyce (1827-1914) taken from Old Irish folk music and songs: a collection of 842 Irish airs and songs; published in 1909. The text begins similarly to the 1797 Irish print version "The Youth's Grievance; or, The Downfall of Molly Bawn."
He has "asthoreen" in italics, which I presumed was Gaelic for "my treasure" (see footnote 1.) The line would be "To Molly, my treasure, whose beauty was great." Anyone know what "asthoreen" means?
Joyce also gives the melody as "Lough Sheelin" and I presume this dates back to around 1850. The difference in the story line is "he" goes to his uncle rather than Molly going to her uncle
409. MOLLY BAWN.
In the last century this song was very popular in the midland and southern counties. I once heard it sung in fine style in the streets of Dublin by a poor woman with a child on her arm. Like several other ballads in this book, it obviously commemorates a tragedy in real life. It has been published by Patrick Kennedy in "The Banks of the Boro," but his copy is somewhat different from mine; and by "Dun-Cathail" in "Popular Poetry of Ireland"; but this last shows evident marks of literary alterations and additions not tending to improvement. My version is just as I learned it from the intelligent singers of my early days. The air is the same as " Lough Sheeling" of Moore's song, "Come, rest on this bosom!" but a different version.
[music]
Come all you young gallants that follow the gun Beware of late shooting at the setting of the sun, For it's little you know what has happened of late, To young Molly asthoreen[1] whose beauty was great.
It happened one evening in a shower of hail. This maid in a bower herself did conceal; Her love being a-shooting, he took her for a fawn; He levelled his gun and he shot Molly Bawn.
And when he came to her and found it was she, His limbs they grew feeble and his eyes could not see; His heart it was broken with sorrow and grief; And with eyes up to heaven, he implored for relief.
He ran to his uncle with the gun in his hand, Saying, "Uncle, dear uncle, I'm not able to stand; I have shot my true lover, alas! I'm undone, As she sat in a bower at the setting of the sun.
"I rubbed her fair temples and found she was dead, And a fountain of tears for my darling I shed; And now, I'll be forced by the laws of the land For the killing of my darling my trial to stand."