Taken from Poems from Ahoghill by Agnes Kerr (Belfast?, c.1913)
The weavin's tae naethin', I really declare,
I'll throw doon the pluckstick, an' shuttle nae mair;
For when the wab's oot you hae naething ava,
When you pye for the reed an' the heddles an' a'.
But I min' the time when the weavin' wus gran',
You cou'd hae dune better by it than by lan',
When we cou'd hae got for a twenty-yin hunner
A great big poun' note — min' you, that wus a stunner.
I'm no' juist the auldest, an' I min' richt weel
When the wee yins cou'd niver get up frae the wheel.
They cou'dna attend them wi' bobbins ava,
For shuttlin' like it you niver hae sa'.
They're as lang as the Boyne noo, as sure as you're there,
You wou'd weave three lang weeks, an' I believe even mair,
An' then when you knock it oot, what dae you get —
Juist eneuch for tae keep you twa days oot o' debt.
Wi' a bit o' hard pellin' you manage, nae doot,
At some time or ither tae knock the wab oot;
But I'm bless'd if you get much time for tae dream,
Till you get anither yin knocked on the beam.
I'll throw by the pluckstick, an' that very soon,
An' then, efther that, the auld loom I'll knock doon;
Then fare-ye-weel, heddles an' temples an' a',
For I'm bless'd if I'd weave for the money ava.