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Then he did uſe his beſt endeavour,
For to find out Will the weaver,
Where he ſearch'd rooms & parlourround,
Never a ſoul was to be found.
Up the chimney ſtraight he gazed,
Where he ſtood like one amazed,
Where he fpy'd the wretched ſoul,
Perching on the chimney pole.
I am glad that I have found thee,
I will neither hang nor drown thee,
But I will ſtifle thee with ſmoke,
Thus he thought, but nothing ſpoke.
Then he put on a rouzing fire,
For to pleaſe his own deſire,
His wife cry'd out with free good will,
Huſband, do not the weaver kill.
Then quickly he put on more fuel,
Then ſhe cry'd, My deareſt jewel,
Since that I am your deareſt wife,
Take him down and ſpare his life.
Off the chimney pole he took him,
And ſo merrily he ſhook him,
At every blow theſe words he ſpoke,
Come no more to ſtop my ſmoke.
Never was a chimney-ſweeper,
Half ſo black as Will the weaver,
Face and hands, and clothes likewiſe,
Sent him home with two black eyes.
F I N I S.
