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

Cho.s

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 ay I ca'd it roun';
But every shot and every 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 mysel!
To the weaver's &c.