THE FACTORY LAD
(Colin Dryden)
You wake up in the morning, sky's as black as night
Your mother's shouting up the stairs, you know she's winning the fight
So you stumble to the breakfast table … grab a bite to eat,
And it's out the door and up the road and through the factory gate.
Chorus:
Turning steel how do you feel,
as in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me, you'd roll right out
and never roll back in.
Cold and dark the morning, as you squeeze in the gate
As you clock in, the bell will ring; eight hours is your fate.
Off comes the coat, up go the sleeves and "right, lads" is the cry,
With one eye on the clock and the other on your lathe, you wish that time could fly.
But time can't fly as fast as, a lathe and it's work you must,
The grinding, groaning, spinning metal, the hot air and the dust …
And many's the time I'm with me girl and we're walking through the park,
While gazing on the spinning steel or the welder's blinding spark.
Well, old Tom, he left last week: his final bell did ring -
His hair was white as the face beneath his oily sunken skin
But he made a speech and he said farewell to a lifetime working here
As I shook his hand, I thought of hell – at a lathe for forty years.
When my time comes, as come it must, then I will leave this place -
I'll walk right out past the charge-hand's dock and never turn my face
Up through the gates into the sun, and I'll leave it all behind -
With one regret, for the lads I've left, to carry on the grind.
As remembered (~) by Bob Bolton from the singing of Colin Dryden
- (~ early 1970s in various Sydney Folk Clubs ..
and busy photographing!) | THE FACTORY LAD
(Colin Dryden)
You wake up in the morning and dawn's as black as night
Your mother shouting up the stairs and you know she's winning the fight
So you'd best venture out of your bed, me lad, for you know it's getting late
And it's down the stairs and up the road and through the factory gate
Chorus
Turning steel how do you feel
As in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me you'd roll right out
And never roll back in
It's wet and bleak, the morning as you squeeze in through the gate
As you clock on, your bell will ring, eight hours is your fate
Off comes your coat all wet and cold and "Right, lads" is the cry
With an eye on the clock and the other on your lathe, you'll wish that
time could fly
The gaffer's walking down the shop and so it's work you must
The grinding, groaning, spinning metal hotter than the dust
And I'm often dreaming of me girl as we're walking through the park
Whilst I'm gazing on that blueing steel and a million flying sparks
Now old Tom Black, last Friday his final bell did ring
With his hair as white as his face beneath and his oily sunken skin
Now he's made a speech and he's bid farewell to a lifetime working here
And as I shook his hand I felt I'd labored forty years
So when my time it comes and at last I leave this place
I'll walk out past the charge-hand's desk, never turn my face
Up to the gates into the sun, and I'll leave it all behind me
With one regret, for the lads I have left to carry on their grind
@work
filename[ FACTRYLD
MC |