Digital Tradition Mirror

Weaver Bird

Weaver Bird
  (Bob Coltman)

  Weave, weave, the weaver bird.
  Weave, weave and spin.
  Weave till my love comes home.
  Then stop and sing.

Woman, old woman, wandering in the plain,
Alexander found her, riding in the rain,
Little rag moppet she clutched in her hand,
Singing a strange song, hard to understand.

Woman, old woman, you seem very weak,
The Keys of Paradise is what I seek.
Woman old woman, I've searched very far,
Do you know someone who knows where they are?

Young master, I know them, they're right around here,
I'll lead you to them, without any fear,
She jumped on his saddle, and they rode along,
The old woman singing her funny old song.

They came to a place where the road it ran dark.
Here they lie buried, old woman remarked.
She bared her old teeth and she pulled out her knife.
And in half a minute took poor Alec's life.

The keys were within you, my frivolous boy.
Now you have used them, so may you enjoy.
All Keys of Paradise lock up your breath,
And the door that they open leads only to Death.

Copyright Bob Coltman

Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!

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