Poverty, poverty knock,
My loom it is saying all day.
Poverty poverty knock,
Gaffer's too skinny to pay.
Poverty, poverty knock,
Always one eye on the clock.
I know I can guttle
When I hear my shuttle
Go poverty, poverty knock
Up ev'ry morning at five,
I wonder that we keep alive.
Tired and yawning,
Another cold morning
It's back to the dreary old drive.
Oh dear, we're going to be late,
Gaffer is stood at the gate;
We're out of pocket
Our wages he'll dock it,
We'll have to buy grub on the slate.
We have to wet our own yarn,
Dipping it into the tarn
It's wet an' soggy
Makes us feel groggy,
With mice in that dirty old barn.
Sometimes a shuttle flies out
And gives some poor woman a clout.
There she lies bleeding
But nobody's heading,
Oh who's going to carry her out?
The tuner should tackle my loom,
He'd rather sit on his bum,
For he's far too busy
A-courting our Lizzie
I just can't up get him to come.
Lizzie, so easily led,
I reckon he takes her to bed.
She always was skinny,
Now look at her pinny,
It's just about time they was wed.
Oh dear, my poor head it sings,
I should have woven three strings.
The threads they keep breaking,
My poor heart is aching,
Oh God, how I wish I had wings.
