|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
The Mill
The Ackroyds and Braithwaites are spinning their gold
On the wheel of misfortune and misery untold,
Where the long lines of mill girls, each face lined and drawn
Have stood at the loom from dusk until dawn.
The night shift, the day shift, have come and have gone,
The brass must be earned so the labour goes on.
For the fabric of life they must weave at the mill
And Ackroyd`s the master for good or for ill.
The whirr of the bobbins, the rumble of wheels,
The snap of the threads as they fly from the creels.
The steam engine`s roar and the slap of the belt
Like the whip of the master that often is felt.
A ten minute break for some dripping and bread,
They eat where they stand in the long weaving shed.
Relieved by yet others who slave at the mill,
Then back to the loom, Ackroyd`s pockets to fill.
While the bobbins and shuttles of Dewsbury town
Do rattle and whirl as the threads running down
From the creels high above in the gloom of the roof
Are devoured to be reborn in the warp and the woof.
So the threads of their lives are devoured by the loom
To be born once again in the fabric of doom
Where the warp and the woof intertwine in their place
To enslave the free spirit of the proud Yorkshire race.
by
Richard Griffin, ©2000
