I am a wee weaver, confined to my loom.
My love she is fair as the red rose in June,
She is loved by all young men, and that does grieve me.
My heart’s in the bosom of lovely Mary.

As Lily and Mary rove by yon shady bower,
Where Lily and Mary spent many the hour,
The blackbirds and thrushes sung in chorus encore
The praises of Mary and of love fair and sure.

As Lily and Mary rove by yon riverside,
Said Lily to Mary, “will you be my bride?”
The couple got married and they’re rambling no more,
They have pleasure on pleasure and love fair and sure.

I am a wee weaver, confined to my loom.
My love she is fair as the red rose in June,
She is loved by all young men, and that does grieve me.
My heart’s in the bosom of lovely Mary.