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And a batten that shall suit it,

And a loom of best construction,

And a treadle of the finest.

Make the weaver’s chair all ready,

For the damsel fix the treadle,

Lay her hand upon the batten.

Soon the shuttle shall be singing,

And the treadle shall be thumping,

Till the rattling fills the village,

And the noise is heard beyond it:

And the crones will all perceive it,

And the village women question,

‘Who is this we hear a-weaving?’

And you thus must make them answer:

‘’Tis my own, my darling, weaving,

’Tis my loved one makes the clatter,

Shall she loosen now the fabric,

And the shuttle cease from throwing?’

“‘Let her not the fabric loosen,

Nor the shuttle cease from throwing.

Thus may weave the Moon’s fair daughters,

Thus may spin the Sun’s fair daughters,

Even thus the Great Bear’s daughters.

Of the lovely stars the daughters.’

“O thou loved and youthful bridegroom,

Handsomest of all the people,

Set thou forth upon thy journey,

Hasten to commence thy journey,

Bear away thy youthful maiden,

Bear away thy dove so lovely.

From thy finch depart thou never,

Nor desert thy darling linnet;

In the ditches do not drive her,

Nor against the hedge-stakes drive her,

Nor upset her on the tree-stumps,

Nor in stony places cast her.

In her father’s house she never,

In her dearest mother’s homestead,

In the ditches has been driven,

Nor against the hedge-stakes driven,