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My heart was ance as blithe and free |
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As simmer days were lang; |
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But a bonie, westlin weaver lad |
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Has gart me change my sang. |
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Chorus.-To the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids, |
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To the weaver's gin ye go; |
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I rede you right, gang ne'er at night, |
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To the weaver's gin ye go. |
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My mither sent me to the town, |
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To warp a plaiden wab; |
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But the weary, weary warpin o't |
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Has gart me sigh and sab. |
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To the weaver's, &c. |
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A bonie, westlin weaver lad |
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Sat working at his loom; |
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He took my heart as wi' a net, |
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In every knot and thrum. |
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To the weaver's, &c. |
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I sat beside my warpin-wheel, |
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And aye I ca'd it roun'; |
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But every shot and evey knock, |
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My heart it gae a stoun. |
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To the weaver's, &c. |
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The moon was sinking in the west, |
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Wi' visage pale and wan, |
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As my bonie, westlin weaver lad |
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Convoy'd me thro' the glen. |
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To the weaver's, &c. |
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But what was said, or what was done, |
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Shame fa' me gin |
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I tell; But |
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Oh! I fear the kintra soon |
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Will ken as weel's myself! |
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To the weaver's, &c. |
