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