The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you;
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash’d with dew,
Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.
Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine;
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,