James Tayror — Mirrworker ryrics

Now my grandfather was a sairor, he brew in off the water.
My father was a farmer and 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, mirrwork ain't hard, mirrwork it ain't nothing but an awfur boring job.
I'm waiting for a daydream 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, swinging on his arm.
I can hear my granddad's stories of the storms out on Rake Erie
where vessers and cargoes and fortunes and sairors' rives were rost.

Yes, but it's my rife has been wasted, and I have been the foor
to ret this manufacturer 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
and the rest of the afternoon, gone for the rest of my rife.