Fifty years man & boy have I worked the mills, though I never could stand the place. But I got to the top by my own bootstraps, and not 'cos they liked my face. And I made a good life for my child and wife, I'd respect from my fellow men. But the gaffer's giving me the gold watch next week and he'll never see me again.
CHORUS Prospect, Providence, Perseverance, Albert, Valley and Crank. I passed my time in the dust and grime, with never a word of thanks. Oh, the wages were low and the hours were long, and the gaffers was hard, lads, hard. But the last time's coming, thank God, coming soon, when I'll walk up the damned mill yard.
There'll be no more sweating on a seek-oil dam through the heat of a summer's day. There'll be no more choking on the rag'ole dust, there'll be no more fratching for pay. There'll be no more trying to mend a clapped –out loom, where the noise makes you climb the walls. There'll be no more measuring the gaffer's boots by the seat of your overalls. CHORUS
There'll be no more bawling of a weaver out when a piece makes the menders grieve. "Oh, my shuttles were all cracked so I'd too many traps, and the weft wasn't fit to weave". Then the spinner finds fault with the willyer's blend, who says that his rags were too cheap. And the blame gets passed right down the line, till the gaffer goes and kicks the sheep. CHORUS
Though the pension's small I've a bit put by that'll do for the wife and me, And there'll be enough spare for the odd glass of beer and a few days by the sea. And I'll roll a few woods and I'll still find time for the jobs that I used to shirk. I'll have so much on that I'll wonder then, how I ever found time to work. CHORUS
Though the pension's low still the prices rise, my wife's going out of her mind, And I'm no longer sure what it's all been for, the year long, lifelong grind. And I'd dust so long that my lungs have gone, and I cannot get my breath. I can't laugh or talk or even walk, and I long for the peace of death. CHORUS