Here's the poem Stewie referenced above, from The State and Columbia Record, February 19th, 1961, p. 12C. "Carolina Folklore" by F. W. Bradley. I have decided to include the column in its entirety to include the original context, including Mr. Bradley's bullish but probably misguided belief in the "better lot" of his contemporary millhands.

......

Sixty and seventy years ago cotton mill workers were an under-privileged class. The names "lint-head," "mill hand," were not complimentary, and the mill workers felt the slight. They had left the farm, where life was hard, but where they had been respected as members of the community. Mill work meant regular pay, and better pay by far than any farm hand could get, so they moved to the town and the mill village. But here they became self-consciously a class to themselves.

Mrs. M. P. Mitchum of Columbia sends this poem, evidently written by a cotton mill hand 50 or 60 years ago:

A FACTORY RHYME

Now while I have a leisure time
I'll try to write a factory rhyme.
I live in Greensboro, a lively town,
And work in a factory, by name, The Crown.

Perhaps you would him to know my name,
But you never will -- I don't write for fame,
But I write to let all classes know,
How cotton mill hands have to go.

'Tis not the intent of my heart
To write anything that would start
Animosity between my employer and me;
But what I write let factory people see.

That while in factories we remain
We are looked upon as a set insane;
The upper tens who swell and fret
Call us the "ignorant factory set."

We are not bred in college walls,
Never played in theaters, nor danced in opera halls,
Nor eat ice cream, nor drink lemonade
Nor smoke cigars, Havana made.

Nor went to picnics every other day,
Nor went on excursions without pay (free)
Nor wore fine clothes nor derby hats,
Nor rode bicycles nor played balls and bats.

But now I'll tell you what we do,
And factory hands know it is true;
We rise up early with the lark,
And work from dawn till alter dark.

We have hard times as you all well know;
To church we hardly get to go.
When Sabbath comes we are tired down
From working hard the whole week round.

We are looked upon as the lowest grade
Of the whole creation God has made,
And I'll have you all to never forget,
We're called the "poor ignorant factory set."

We pay high prices for all we eat,
Molasses and coffee, bread and meat.
And should we fail our money to get,
We are called the "lying factory set."

The merchants love to see us work,
But our company on Sunday they still shirk;
But when payday comes and our money they get,
Then we're the "paying factory set."

Education we have none,
Father nor mother, daughter nor son,
And that is why the people fret,
And call us the "ignorant factory set."

And now you've read this rhyme all through,
And know that what I've written is true;
And I hope all Christians will never forget
To pray for the "ignorant factory set."

But in the end we hope to see
These people as happy as they can be,
And when the Judge on his throne will sit,
We hope he'll say "Come in, happy factory set."

CHANGED TIMES

To those who know the facts this is a faithful and true picture of the mill villagers. The village was always on the wrong side of the railroad track. The villagers were looked down upon. The drab monotony of the houses was depressing. And the villagers them-selves were sometimes little moved to protest. They were used to being at a disadvantage. In one village, not far from the State House, a mill family was accustomed to use the family bathtub to store salt pork during the winter. It was not unknown for children to be sewed up in their underwear for the winter.

But those days are gone with the wind. Mill workers are no longer poor. If two or three members of a family work, their wages now would equal what the president of the mill got in the old days. They are no longer ignorant. Their schools are as good as the best, and better than most. And I am convinced that the social barrier no longer exists, either. The mill worker "plays in the theater and dances in the opera" as much as anybody. The greater the contrast between the life of mill workers 60 years ago and their life today, the greater is our debt to this naive poet, who has so faithfully and accurately told us how things were in his time. Mrs. Mitchum's uncle, Henry Tocker, sent this poem from Columbia to her family in Greeleyville. Her uncle came originally from N. C. So, evidently we are indebted to a Tar Heel poet and mill worker in Greensboro, N.C., for the poem. It has been copied probably scores of times and handed down, just as this copy was.