The Weaver.
Where Kelvin rins to join the Clyde,
There lives a lad whose honest pride
Can match wi' a' the kintra side,—
He is a gallant weaver.
His cheeks are tinged wi' rosy hue,
His een are o' the bonniest blue;
But, oh! his heart, it is sae true,
I love my gallant weaver.
Let others wed for sake o' gear;
Gin we get health, I ha'e nae fear,
That poortith ever will come near
My eident lad, the weaver.
True line will mak' our labour light;
'Twill keep us blythe frae morn till night,
And happiness will shine fu' bright
Upon my gallant weaver.
When wintry win's, sae cauld and blae,
Mak' a' the face o' nature wae,
At e'en, a canty fire I'll ha'e
To cheer my gallant weaver.
Then haste ye, Time; oh dinna bide;
Bring round the day I'll be his bride,
Then smoothly sweet the hours will glide
O'er Jeanie and her weaver.