Just as the lasses were leaving the mill,
Percy from London stood sucking his quill.
He was the son of the owner, you know,
Just come to cotton-town, thought it too slow.
"Oh, what a lark," he remarked to his dad,
"If a girl from the mill I should wed!"
His father, a lancashire man bred and born,
Was highly indignant and said,

Chorus: "You might do worse than marry a sweet little factory lass,
A neat little factory lass, a reet little factory lass.
She can help you if trouble should come
And she won't want to squander your 'brass'.
You might do worse than marry a gradely factory lass!"

Wonders have never to cease, people say;
So 'twas no wonder that Percy one day
Fell deep in love with a neet factory hand,
She was the pride of the mill, understand.
He thought, "She's just the right partner for me,
So I think I'll choose her for my bride."
That night to his father the story he told;
The old man looked pleased and replied,


Now comes the serious part of the tale,
Percy was doomed in his wooing, to fail.
When he proposed to this dear little lass,
She said, "I don't think I'd shine in your class.
I mean to stick to my friends in the mill,
For friends nowadays are so few;
Beside that I've got a sweetheart of my own,
And really, I've no use for two"


Written and composed by C.W. Murphy & Will Letters - 1910
Performed by Charles R. Whittle (1874-1947)
From Music Hall Lyrics Collection
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