Spouter's companion/Parody on Lord Ullin's Daughter

PARODY ON LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A weaver, unto Paisley bound,
Cries "Coachman, coachman, tarry,
And I will gi'e you eighteenpence,
Me on the road to carry."

"Now wha be ye the road wad pass,
This dreadfu' snawy weather?"
"Oh! I'm a weaver frae the Shaws,
My wab is on my shouther.

And fast ahint your coach I've ran,
Twa miles and mair thegither,
And if ye dinna tak' me on,
The snaw soon will me smother."

Outspake the hardy coachman then—
"Get ye upon the dicky;
It is na for your eighteenpence,
But out o' love I tak' ye.

And by my word, my weaver lad,
In faith, we maunna tarry:
For see, the snaw is very deep,—
I'll drive, and that wi' fury."

By this the snaw-storm did increase,
The leddies they were shriekin',
The snaw-flakes cam' and filled their months
When they attempted speaking.

But as the storm did fast increase,
And as the wreaths did gather,
The weaver's bundle had unloosed,
And fa'en frae aff his shouther.

When, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His loss he did discover,
He left the coach, and sought in vain
His bundle to recover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
Through storm his voice did sound ill,
At length he stood, and wept, and cried,
"My bundle! O my bundle!"

'Twas vain, the snaw had cover'd o'er,
The wab, his view preventin',
The coach drave on—the weaver stood,
Alane, his case lamentin'.