Air,-  The Weavers’ March

  

Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea,             runs rolling

By mony a flow’r and spreading tree,

There lives a lad, the lad for me,

            He is a gallant weaver.

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine,

They gi’ed me rings and ribbons fine;

An’ I was fear’d my heart would tine,                 be lost

            An’ I gi’ed it to the weaver.

 

 

My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,             dower bond

To gi’e the lad that has the land;

But to my heart I’ll add my hand,

            And gi’e it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;

While bees delight in op’ning flowers;

While corn grows green in simmer showers,

            I’ll love my gallant weaver.

 

                       

                        Robert Burns, 1759 - 1796.

                        [written in 1791]