Its like a thousand years ago i first left out me pen
With brogan boots and wrinkled coat i went to join the men.
For one and six a day we worked and broke our backs
Pulling fields of lint to make the Fincairn flax.
We wash our hands and faces and we disinfect our clothes
We scrub behind our kneecaps and we clean between our toes
We douse our hair with hair oil and run it down our backs
But sure as hell you still can smell the Fincairn flax.
We steeped it and we spread it and we dried it in the sun
And we lifted it and tied it and the work was never done
We only wanted rest, for we were dropping in our tracks,
But the ladies wanted hankies made of Fincairn flax.
Well our hands were cut and blistered our knees were all in red
And the achin' in our muscles ah you might as well be dead
But the farmer stood and glowered as we built the linten stacks
And he thought about the money from the Fincairn flax.
And when we meet Saint Peter he'll say come right through
For its pointless giving penance to a man who worked liked you
To ask you to do penance is to ask you to relax
For Hell is fun compared with working Fincairn flax.
This is off an old Barley Bree album titled No Mans Land (Shanachie 52012)
@farm @work @bitching