THE GIRL BESIDE THE CHIMNEY

THE GIRL BESIDE THE CHIMNEY

In eighteen hundred
The factories cried,
Their chimneys made shadows
That darkened the sky.

A young girl called Annie
Was only thirteen,
Her fingers were blackened
By oil from machines.

The mill bell awakened
The street before light,
And called all the workers
From morning till night.

The rich rode in carriages,
Warm under fur,
While nobody noticed
The coughing of her.

Her mother stitched dresses,
Her father mined coal,
The work bent his body
And darkened his soul.

But Annie loved reading
Old books that she found,
With torn little pages
And string wrapped around.

She learned about freedom,
Of justice and rights,
Then wrote down her wishes
By candle at night.

She dreamed of a future
Where children could play,
And never be purchased
For pennies a day.

She stood by the chimney
And lifted her page,
Her voice may have trembled,
But not with her rage.

“The wheels keep on turning,
The owners grow fat,
But people are living,
Please remember that.”

Her words reached the workers,
They gathered as one,
Demanding a life
With some warmth and some sun.

The powerful mocked them,
Then sent them away,
But Annie’s small message
Still lives here today.

For history remembers
The grand and the proud,
But change often started
With one in the crowd.