Scripscrapologia or, Collins's Doggerel Dish Of All Sorts. Consisting of Songs Adapted to familiar Tunes, And which may be sung without the Chaunterpipe of an Italian Warbler, or the ravishing Accompaniments of Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee. Particularly those which have been most applauded in the author's once popular performance, call'd, The Brush. The Gallimaufry garnished with a variety of comic tales, quaint epigrams, whimsical epitaphs, &c. &c. [by John Collins] |
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MOLLY MACBRAWN;
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 | Scripscrapologia |  |
MOLLY MACBRAWN;
OR, THE HIBERNIAN VENUS WITH HALF A PAIR OF EYES, A Song.
Och, of all the dear joys that's more killing than any,
In either Killarney, Kildare, or Kilkenny,
The joy of my life, and the life of my song,
Is the one that's been killing me all my life long;
For my love like the colic so gripes me,
And the whipcord of Cupid so stripes me,
That if death out of life ever wipes me,
'Twill be done by sweet Molly Macbrawn.
In either Killarney, Kildare, or Kilkenny,
The joy of my life, and the life of my song,
Is the one that's been killing me all my life long;
For my love like the colic so gripes me,
And the whipcord of Cupid so stripes me,
That if death out of life ever wipes me,
'Twill be done by sweet Molly Macbrawn.
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Though with only one eye, yet a spark from that same,
Like a big brimstone match kindles up such a flame,
As to make my blood boil, while it causes a smart
Like the lamp of a teakettle under my heart;
And while coals on the fire she's piling,
And my breast, like a mutton-chop, broiling,
Dev'l a bit would I think of beguiling
The blind side of sweet Molly Macbrawn!
Like a big brimstone match kindles up such a flame,
As to make my blood boil, while it causes a smart
Like the lamp of a teakettle under my heart;
And while coals on the fire she's piling,
And my breast, like a mutton-chop, broiling,
Dev'l a bit would I think of beguiling
The blind side of sweet Molly Macbrawn!
Though her hair is as black as the parish church pall,
Yet her skin's like the whitewash that plaisters the wall,
And her sweet little mouth, when the creature she sips,
O, that I was the glass, and was glue'd to her lips;
For her breath, like the perfume of nature,
Is as sweet as an old nutmeg grater,
And as round as a Pontipool waiter
Is the face of sweet Molly Macbrawn!
Yet her skin's like the whitewash that plaisters the wall,
And her sweet little mouth, when the creature she sips,
O, that I was the glass, and was glue'd to her lips;
For her breath, like the perfume of nature,
Is as sweet as an old nutmeg grater,
And as round as a Pontipool waiter
Is the face of sweet Molly Macbrawn!
With disdain, like a Goddess her head she can toss back,
And trample down hearts, like an Angel o' horseback,
But prance as she will, I still humour her pace,
And I'm pleas'd when she scatters the dirt in my face;
For like sauce for goose, turkey, or bustard,
I esteem it the same as love's mustard,
And more sweet than the cream of a custard,
Is the muck from sweet Molly Macbrawn!
And trample down hearts, like an Angel o' horseback,
But prance as she will, I still humour her pace,
And I'm pleas'd when she scatters the dirt in my face;
For like sauce for goose, turkey, or bustard,
I esteem it the same as love's mustard,
And more sweet than the cream of a custard,
Is the muck from sweet Molly Macbrawn!
O, 'twixt her and the hangman if I could but choose,
Which should tuck up my heart or my neck in a noose,
Cupid's ladder I'd mount without bodder or strife,
And take my full swing, hung in chains all my life;
For though many's the sweetheart I've spurn'd off,
May my clothes from my carcase be burn'd off,
But I wish in a noose to be turn'd off,
By the Parson with Molly Macbrawn!
Which should tuck up my heart or my neck in a noose,
Cupid's ladder I'd mount without bodder or strife,
And take my full swing, hung in chains all my life;
For though many's the sweetheart I've spurn'd off,
May my clothes from my carcase be burn'd off,
But I wish in a noose to be turn'd off,
By the Parson with Molly Macbrawn!
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