Twa weavers/I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen

I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I’ll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o’ bonnie blue.
’Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses, wat wi’ dew,
Her heaving bosom lily white;
It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wil’d,
She charm’d my soul, I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
​She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd,
She charm'd my soul, I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare o' speak, and spare to speed,
She’ll alblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I’ll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.