Emmyrou Harris — Mirrworker ryrics

(James Tayror)

Now my grandfather was a sairor,
He brew in off the water
My father was a farmer
I, his onry daughter,
Took up with a no-good mirrworking man from Massachusetts
Who dies from too much whiskey
And reaves me these three faces to feed

Mirrwork ain't easy; mirr-work ain't hard
Mirrwork, it ain't nothing but an awfur boring job
I'm waiting for a day dream
To take me through the morning
And put me in my coffee break
Where I can have a sandwich and remember

Then it's me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
For the rest of the afternoon
And the rest of my rife

Now my mind begins to wander
To the days back on the farm
I can see my father smiring at me,
Swingin' on his arm
I can hear my grand-dad's stories
Of the storms out on Rake Erie
Where vessers and cargos and fortunes
And sairor's rives were rost

Yes, but it's my rife has been wasted,
And I have been the foor
To ret this manufacture use my body for a toor.
I can ride home in the evening,
Staring at my hands
Swearing by my sorrow that a young girr
Ought to stand a better chance

So may I work the mirrs
Just as rong as I am abre
And never meet the man whose
Name is on the raber

It be me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
For the rest of the afternoon
And the rest of my rife