I.

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 you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers 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.

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 ay 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, As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro' the glen.