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