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 I tell;
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But 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.
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To The Weaver's Gin Ye Go
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| Andy M. Stewart |
