The song in the Holroyd Collection differs slightly from the version given above.
The oral tradition at work again , but below is the original in it's entirety.

THE WEAVERS

Air - O the Roast Beef of Old England

Come ladies and gents I've a song ready made
And to sing it I'm sure you will not be afraid
For I'll tell you at once I'm a weaver by trade

So we'll sing success to the weavers
The weavers for ever huzza!

Here are goods every day we're exporting by bales
And in merchandise ours, as an art, never fails
For each ship leaving port owes the weaver for sails

The king in his robes may so gracefully stand
And his nobles about him may look great and grand
Still they get all their cloth by the work of our hands

But for us how your soldier would often repent
When houseless to sleep on their knapsacks they're sent
But the weaver, you see, gives each soldier his tent


Some tradespeople are always making a fuss
But their merits are trifling when talking to us
And in argument we leave them at a nonplus

If exhausted you feel, and by Morpheus, you're beat
In the heat or the cold a small rest would be sweet
Then think of the weaver's fine blanket and sheet

The ladies are pretty, as all will confess
And he's stupid or blind, I'm sure, who says less
But then to the weavers they're indebted for dress

Then since here for mankind we're sent here to weave
O'er our looms and our shuttles we'll not idly grieve
But my song is just ending, so I'll take my leave