Will the Weaver.
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O Mother, mother, I am married,
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O that I had longer tarried,
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For the woman do declare,
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That the breeches they will wear.
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(She) Is she costly in her diet?
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Does she scold, or does she riot?
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(He) She sometimes to the tavern goes,
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With Will the Weaver, And God knows, --
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(She) Loving Son, no more discover,
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But my dear, go home and love her,
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Give my daughter whats her due,
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And let me hear no more of you.
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(He) Ill give her gold, Ill give her die.
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Ill give her all things, if shes quiet;
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But if in words she does rebel,
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Ill take my stick and bang her well.
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A neighbour run for to meet him,
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On purposely for to vex him,
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Saying, neighbour, Ill tell you how,
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And who I saw with your wife just now.
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There was he and Will the Weaver,
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Mighty free and close together;
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At the threshold of the door,
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They went in, I saw no more,
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Then he ran home all in a wonder,
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Knocking at the door like thunder;
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Who is that? the Weaver cryd,
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It is my husband, you must dide.
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Then up the chimney soon he venturd,
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And her husband in he enterd,
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Where have you been all this day,
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Come and tell me now I pray
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Spending of our gold and treasure,
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All the day long out of measure;
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Whilst I, poor girl must stay at home,
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By myself making of moan.
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Loving wife no more affliction,
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But I pray follow my direction;
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Get me some beer, for I am dry,
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To his wife he did reply.
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Then he did is best endeavour,
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For to find out Will the Weaver;
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He serchd the rooms and chambers round,
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But not a soul was to be found.
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Then up the chimney strait he gazed,
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And there he stood like one amazed,
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The wretched soul he spied there,
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Sitting up the chimney bar.
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I am glad that I have found thee,
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I will neiher hang nor drown thee,
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But Ill stifle you with smoak,
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This bethought, but nothing spoke.
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Then he made up a rousing fire,
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For to please his own desire,
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His wife cryd out with a free good-will,
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Husband, Husband, the man youll kill.
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Then he soon put on more fuel,
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She cryd out my dearest jewel,
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Since I am your lawful wife,
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Take him down and spare his life.
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Off the chimney-bar he took him,
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And so merrily he shook him,
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Every stroke these words he spoke,
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Come here no more to spoil my smoak.
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Never was a chimney-sweeper,
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Half so black as Will the Weaver;
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Face and hands, and cloaths likewise,
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He sent him home with two black-eyes.
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