Dick & Nell, or, Linky Lanky/Will the weaver

WILL the WEAVER.

To its own proper Tune.

MOther, I am married,
⁠I wiſh that I had longer tarried,
For the women they do ſwear,
That the breeches they will wear.

⁠Does ſhe ſcold or does ſhe riot,
Or is ſhe coſtly in her diet,
Sometimes to the tavern goes,
With Will the weaver, and God knows.

⁠Loving ſon, no more diſcover,
But pray my dear go home and love her,
Give my daughter what's her due,
Let me hear no more of you,

⁠I'll give her gold, I'll give her diet,
I'll give her all things if ſhe's quiet,
But if in words ſhe does rebel,
I'll take a ſtick and bang her well.

⁠A neighbour coming for to meet him,
Just on purpoſe for to vex him,
I'll tell you what I ſaw juſt now,
As I was coming unto you.

⁠I ſaw your wife and Will the weaver,
Mighty free and cloſs together,
At the threſhold of the door,
They both went in, I ſaw no more.

⁠Home he went, all in a wonder,
Knocking at the door like thunder,
Who is there, the weaver cry'd?
It is my huſband, you muſt hide.

⁠Up the chimney ſtraight he ventur'd,
In the houſe her huſband enter'd.
Where have you been all the day,
Come and tell me now I pray?

⁠A ſpending of your gold and treaſure,
All the day long out of meaſure,
While I poor girl muſt ſtay at home,
By myſelf to make my moan.

⁠Loving Wive, no more affliction,
But pray follow my direction,
Bring me ſome beer, for I am dry,
This to her he did reply.

⁠Then he did uſe his beſt endeavour,
For to find out Will the weaver,
Where he ſearch'd rooms & parlourround,
Never a ſoul was to be found.

⁠Up the chimney ſtraight he gazed,
Where he ſtood like one amazed,
Where he fpy'd the wretched ſoul,
Perching on the chimney pole.

⁠I am glad that I have found thee,
I will neither hang nor drown thee,
But I will ſtifle thee with ſmoke,
Thus he thought, but nothing ſpoke.

⁠Then he put on a rouzing fire,
For to pleaſe his own deſire,
His wife cry'd out with free good will,
Huſband, do not the weaver kill.

⁠Then quickly he put on more fuel,
Then ſhe cry'd, My deareſt jewel,
Since that I am your deareſt wife,
Take him down and ſpare his life.

⁠Off the chimney pole he took him,
And ſo merrily he ſhook him,
At every blow theſe words he ſpoke,
Come no more to ſtop my ſmoke.

⁠Never was a chimney-ſweeper,
Half ſo black as Will the weaver,
Face and hands, and clothes likewiſe,
Sent him home with two black eyes.

F I N I S.