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Will the Weaver (3) Now my lad, we are married I'm no longer single tarried My wife she did cuss and swear Swore the breeches she would wear. As I went home a neighbor met me, And they told me this just to fret me: You can't guess to save your life Who I saw talking with your wife. I saw her and Will the Weaver Talking so polite together At the sill of her own door. In they went and I saw no more.] Up the chimney boldly peeping There I saw the one I missing, There I saw that poor old soul Sitting on the lubber pole. I reached up and down I fotched him, Round the room like hell I shot him. She cries out: "O spare his life And save him for his wedded wife. He tore out in a terrible blunder For his home like hell in thunder You have been to the devil, I'm sure, Just look how your clothes is tore. Now, my lad, we'll have a trimming For meddlling with your neighbour's women. She picked up a stick and hit him on the head. Before it was black and now it was red. From Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians, Sharp Collected from William Morgan, KY 1917 DT #345 Laws Q9 RG apr96
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