(James Taylor)



Now my grandfather was a sailor,

He blew in off the water

My father was a farmer

I, his only daughter,

Took up with a no-good millworking man from Massachusetts

Who dies from too much whiskey

And leaves me these three faces to feed



Millwork ain't easy; mill-work ain't hard

Millwork, it ain't nothing but an awful 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 life



Now my mind begins to wander

To the days back on the farm

I can see my father smiling at me,

Swingin' on his arm

I can hear my grand-dad's stories

Of the storms out on Lake Erie

Where vessels and cargos and fortunes

And sailor's lives were lost



Yes, but it's my life has been wasted,

And I have been the fool

To let this manufacture use my body for a tool.

I can ride home in the evening,

Staring at my hands

Swearing by my sorrow that a young girl

Ought to stand a better chance



So may I work the mills

Just as long as I am able

And never meet the man whose

Name is on the label



It be me and my machine

For the rest of the morning

For the rest of the afternoon

And the rest of my life