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