Роберт Бернс (Robert Burns)

My Heart Was Ance

MY heart was ance as blythe and free
  As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie westlin weaver lad
  Has gart me change my sang.
    To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
      To the weavers gin ye go;
    I rode you right gang ne’er at night,
      To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town,
  To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o’t
  Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad
  Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi’ a net,
  In every knot and thrum.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
  And aye I ca’d it roun’;
But every shot and every knock,
  My heart it gae a stoun.

The moon was sinking in the west
  Wi’ visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
  Convoy’d me through the glen.

But what was said, or what was done,
  Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But oh! fear the kintra soon
  Will ken as weel’s mysel.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
  To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right; gang ne’er at night,
  To the weavers gin ye go.

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