Daily, hourly, the needle ne’er seems to tire,
Ah! slaves must work and their children must be fed.
See her drunken husband, staggering in the room,
“Curse you, give me money, I must drink!
Come, now give the money, money, quick I say!”
A blow, a kick, unconscious see her sink.
Chorus.
In drink besotted madness he rains on her kicks and blows,
Till she lies there slowly dying, soon will end her earthly woes,
And she feebly murmurs, “Harry, oh it darker, darker grows!”