Theatrical speaker/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 mauna 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 mouths
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 frac 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 lenth he stood, and wept, and cried,
My bundle! O my bundle!

Twas vain; the snaw had covered o'er
The wab, his view preventin'
The coach drave on-the weaver stood
Alane, his case lamentin',