The Mill

The Mill

The tap of clogs on cobblestones,
Echo through the misty morn,
Ragged skirts rustle around stocking-less legs,
Shuffling to work at day's dawn,
Loom awaits, shuttles clatter out,
Their hunger for deftness of hand,
No one can even imagine now,
Of the poor in this our land.

Weft lassie clambers beneath moving loom,
Removing wool waste and thread,
No stopping soul gobbling machine,
Get on or don't get fed,
Work bell promptly clangs just after noon,
Breakfast taken on your feet,
A gulp of insipid cold grey tea,
Three-day-old stale bread to eat.

Fingers flash in skilful rhythm,
For manufacturers financial gain,
Never seeing the destitution,
Fatigue and ceaseless strain,
Tombstones stand forlorn and stark,
Alone upon the grassy fell,
Bygone whispers from sodden earth,
This tale to you they'll tell.

Of orphan girls young and fair,
Pirated from far and wide,
Fatigue, abuse and consumption,
Death made them its unwilling bride,
Worked to death in England's mills,
To help build a mighty nation,
In this year of 1833, no fear of emancipation.

Now they lay up yonder,
Mere children that had no home,
Damn the Industrial Revolution,
That turned people into stone.

© Terry Sorby