Oh, when I was a tailor, I carried my bodkin and shears.
When I was a weaver, I carried my rood and my gear.
My temples also, my small clothes and reed in my hand.
And wherever I go, there’s the jolly bold weaver again.
I’m a hand weaver to me trade.
I fell in love with a factory maid,
And if I could but her favor win,
I’d stand beside her and weave by steam.
My father to me scornful said,
How could you fancy a factory maid?
When you could have girls fine and gay
Dressed like unto the queen of the May.
I went to my love’s bedroom door
Where I had often times been before,
But I could not speak nor yet get in
The pleasant bed where my love lay in.
How can you call it a pleasant bed,
When nowt lies there but a factory maid?
A factory maid although she be,
Blessed is the man that enjoys she.
Pleasant thoughts run through my mind
When I turn down her sheets so fine,
And see her two breasts standing so,
Like two white hills all covered with snow.
Where are the girls, I will tell you plain:
The girls have all gone to weave by steam,
And if you’d find them you must rise at dawn
And trudge to the mill in the early morn.