I cannot tell how it happened that some of us knew about the English factory children, who, it was said, were treated so badly, and were even whipped by their cruel overseers. But we did know of it, and used to sing, to a doleful little tune, some verses called, “The Factory Girl’s Last Day.” I do not remember it well enough to quote it as written, but have refreshed my memory by reading it lately in Robert Dale Owen’s writings:—
“THE FACTORY GIRL’S LAST DAY.
“’Twas on a winter morning,
The weather wet and wild,
Two hours before the dawning
The father roused his child,
Her daily morsel bringing,
The darksome room he paced,
And cried, ‘The bell is ringing—
My hapless darling, haste!’