My heart was ance as blythe and free,
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go,
I rede ye richt, gang ne'er at nicht,
To the weavers gin ye go.
A bonnie, westlin weaver lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi' a net,
In every knot and thrum.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca'd it roun';
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
The moon was sinking in the west,
Wi" visage pale and wan,
And my bonnie, westlin weaver lad
Convoy'd me thro' the glen.
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!
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