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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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns