| 'Poverty poverty knock,' my loom is a saying all day |
| Poverty poverty knock, gaffer’s too skinny to pay |
| Poverty poverty knock, keeping one eye on the clock |
| I know I can guttle when I hear my shuttle go, 'poverty poverty knock' |
| Up every morning at five, I wonder that we keep alive |
| Tired and yawning in the cold morning |
| It’s back to the dreary old drive. |
| (Repeat chorus) |
| Oh dear we’re going to be late |
| Gaffer is stood at the gate |
| We’re out of pockets, our wages they’ll dock it |
| We’ll have to buy grub on the slate |
| (Repeat chorus) |
| And when our wages they’ll bring, we’re often short of a string |
| While we are fighting with gaffer for snatching (?) |
| We know to his breast he will cling |
| (Repeat chorus) |
| Sometimes a shuttle flies out |
| and gives some poor woman a clout |
| There she lies bleeding but nobody’s heeding |
| Oh who’s going to carry her out? |
| (Repeat chorus) |
| Oh dear, my poor head it sings |
| I should have woven three strings |
| My threads are breaking and my back is aching |
| Oh dear, I wish I had wings |
| Poverty poverty knock |
| Poverty poverty knock |
| Poverty poverty knock |