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To The Weavers Gin Ye Go

     My heart was ance as blithe and free
     As simmer days were lang;
     But a bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Has gart me change my sang.

     Chorus.—To the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids,
     To the weaver's gin ye go;
     I rede you right, gang ne'er at night,
     To the weaver's gin ye go.

     My mither sent me to the town,
     To warp a plaiden wab;
     But the weary, weary warpin o't
     Has gart me sigh and sab.
     To the weaver's, &c.

     A bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Sat working at his loom;
     He took my heart as wi' a net,
     In every knot and thrum.
     To the weaver's, &c.

     I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
     And aye I ca'd it roun';
     But every shot and evey knock,
     My heart it gae a stoun.
     To the weaver's, &c.

     The moon was sinking in the west,
     Wi' visage pale and wan,
     As my bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Convoy'd me thro' the glen.
     To the weaver's, &c.

     But what was said, or what was done,
     Shame fa' me gin I tell;
     But Oh! I fear the kintra soon
     Will ken as weel's myself!
     To the weaver's, &c.

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