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Weavers, Weaving at breack of day,
Why so you weave a garment so gay?
We weave the robes of a new born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright?
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marrige-veils og a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What so you weave in the moon-light chill?
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man’s funrel shroud.