Jean Ritchie - Will the Weaver (Roud 432)
This recording was made by Alan Lomax in 1949. Most of the Lomax recordings are poor quality and absent from YouTube. I plan to remove as much background noise as possible and upload as many as I can. Here is a playlist with my other Jean Ritchie uploads: • Jean Ritchie - Geordie (Child 209, Roud 90)
Here is a link to my main channel, which mostly consists of informative and historical videos about traditional music and features many rare recordings: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHYX...
This video will not be monitized. All credit goes to Jean Ritchie, Alan Lomax and whomever currently holds to rights to this music. I uploaded this video because the music needs to be heard.
Mamaw, mamaw, now I'm married,
a single life I wish I'd tarried,
For the women, they will swear,
their men's britches they will wear.
Son, oh son, go home and love her,
don't come around no more discover,
If she don't do to compell,
pick up a stick and beat her well.
On his way a neighbor met him,
Told him this just for to fret him,
"Tell you now, tell you how,
The weaver went home with your wife just now."
On he went all in a wonder,
Knocking at the door just like a thunder,
"Who is that?" the weaver cried,
"That is my husband, you must hide."
Into the house he then did venture,
Into the house he then did enter,
Searched it up and he searched it down,
Not a soul could there be found.
It's up the chimney he was a-gazing,
Up the chimney he was amazing (?),
There he spied two poor old souls,
Sitting up there on two cross poles.
"Hahaha, I'm glad I found you,
I'll neither hang nor burn nor drowned you,
Though I'll stifle you in the smoke,"
This he thought but he never spoke.
On he built him a rousing fire,
Just to sooth his own desire,
While she cried with a free good will,
"Madam's husband you will kill."
On he put in a little more fuel,
Just to sooth his own desule (?),
She cried "Bring him down and spare his life,
And I will make you a lawful wife."
Up he wretched and down he fetched him,
Over the floor like a devil he stretched him,
Shirt was white and his coat was black,
And he went home with two bruised eyes.
On his way his wife she met him,
Up with a club and down she fetched him,
Turned the white all into red,
Poor Will the Weaver, now he's dead.