He quickly ran to her
And found she was dead
And there on her bosom
Many salt-tears he shed
He ran home to his father
With his gun in his hand
Saying "Father, dear father
I have shot Molly Bán"
Her white apron wrapped around her
He took her for a swan
But a hush and a sigh
'Twas his own Molly Bán
He roamed near the place
Where his true love was slain
He wept bitter tears
But his cries were in vain
As he looked on the lake
A swan glided by
And the sun slowly sank
In the gray of sky
“How do you know it?” I whispered into her ear. Her body shivered. Did I do that?
She swallowed before answering. “My, uh, my Maimeó used to sing this to us when we were small.” A small tear threatened from her glassy eye making me uneasy.
“What’s a Maw-mo?” I asked, curious as hell.
“Maimeó is what we call my grandmother. She’s born and bred Irish. Came to the United States, Jersey, in the sixties carrying my father.”
“That explains the name MacLochlainn,” I said, a slight grin tugging at my lips.
“Yeah, Americans assume I’m Scottish because of the whole ‘Mac’ thing but I’m one hundred percent Irish. My mother’s family is Irish as well, but they came to the U.S. during the potato famine.” That’s when I realized that this must be like coming home for January.
“It also explains the red highlights,” I blurted out without realizing. I almost slapped my hand over my mouth.
Her mouth began to form the question, but out of nowhere a man lifted me from my seat, saving me...possibly.
“Ah, it is you!” He exclaimed loudly for the whole pub to hear. He slapped me on the back, making me choke. “Right! Let’s get pissed, ya’ bastard!” He bellowed making everyone cheer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as he pushed me toward the bar, “do I know you?”