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I lived in a town way down south |
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By the name of Buffalo |
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Worked in the mill with the rest of the trash |
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As we're often called you know |
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You factory folks who sing this rhyme |
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Will surely understand |
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The reason why I love you so |
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Is I'm a factory hand |
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While standing here between my looms |
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You know I lose no time |
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To keep my shuttles in a whizz |
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And write this little rhyme |
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We rise up early in the morn' |
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And work all day real hard |
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To buy our little meat and bread |
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And sugar, tea and lard |
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We work from weekend to weekend |
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And never lose a day |
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And when that awful payday comes |
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We draw our little pay |
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We then go home on payday night |
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And sit down in a chair |
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The merchant raps upon the door |
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He's come to get his share |
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When all our little debts are paid |
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And nothing left behind |
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We turn our pockets wrong-side out |
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But not a cent can we find |
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We rise up early in the morn' |
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And toil from soon to late |
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We have no time to primp or fix |
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And dress right up to date |
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Our children they grow up unlearned |
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No time to go to school |
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Almost before they have learned to walk |
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They have learned to spin or spool |
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The bossman jerks them round and round |
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And whistles very keen |
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I'll tell you what the factory kids |
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Are really treated mean |
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The folks in town who dress so fine |
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And spend their money free |
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Will hardly look at a factory hand |
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Who dresses like you and me |
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As we go walking down the street |
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All wrapped in lint and strings |
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They call us fools and factory trash |
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And other lowdown things |
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Well let them wear their watches fine |
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Their rings and pearly strings |
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When the day of judgement comes |
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We'll make 'em shed their pretty things |
