Oh, when I was a tailor, I carried my bodkin and shears. When I was a weaver, I carried my roods and my gear. My temples also, my small clothes and reed in my hand. And wherever I go, here's the jolly bold weaver again.
I'm a hand weaver to my trade. I fell in love with a factory maid, And if I could but her favour win, I'd stand beside her and weave by steam.
My father to me scornful said, How could you fancy a factory maid? When you could have girls fine and gay Dressed like unto the queen of May.
As for your fine girls I don't care If I could but enjoy my dear, I'd stand in the factory all the day And she and I'd keep our shuttles in play.
I went to my love's bedroom door Where often times I had been before, But I could not speak nor yet get in The pleasant bed that my love laid in.
How can you say it's a pleasant bed, When nowt lies there but a factory maid? A factory lass although she be, Blest is the man that enjoys she.
O pleasant thoughts come to my mind As I turn down the sheets so fine, And I seen her two breasts standing so, Like two white hills all covered with snow.
The loom goes click and the loom goes clack The shuttle flies forward and then flies back. The weaver's so bent that he's like to crack, Such a wearisome trade is the weaver.
The yarn is made into cloth at last, The ends of the weft they are made quite fast, The weaver's labours are now all past, Such a wearisome trade is the weaver.
Where are the girls, I will tell you plain: The girls have gone to weave by steam, And if you'd find them you must rise at dawn
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