She tucks her frozen fingers into the pockets of her rough woolen jacket
Getting close to the familiar clunking of the heavy machinery racket
The mesmerising hum glides down walls made of stone
And bumps over cobbled streets where mill children had grown
Over the wall, as she passes, she hears the flow of the burn
Serving each of the tweed, corn and tartan mills in turn
The whinstone rubble mill buildings line the track to the station
And the carbon steel sleepers feel every single vibration
She remembers ballads of waulking women as they softened new tweed
Their sweet singing voices as they’d pummel and knead
Now replaced by the humming of loom after loom
With spinning jennies and weaving drums in every room
The heat blasts her skin as she pushes open the door
Pulls on her pinnie and hair cap and heads to the work floor
The yarn, tweed and tartan will travel worldwide
While the women who made it in Selkirk will bide
