Cordelia's Mill

Lyrics

First, the river.
Always, the Sudbury.

Dexter Newton saw the drop in the land.
Eighteen thirty-four.
He smelled the fresh-cut timber, felt the damp earth give way.
Built a wooden frame by the water, for the water to turn.
A simple start.
Before the name. Before the bricks.

But they call it Cordelia's Mill.
For Cordelia M. Fay Burnett, who never once worked the looms.
This is the sound of cassimeres and flannels being born.
The thrum in the heavy timber floors.
The smell of wet wool, lanolin, and dye.
This isn't a town with a mill.
This is a mill that grew a town.
And gave it her name. Cordaville.

Then came George Burnett. Eighteen sixty.
With a mind for expansion, and money for granite and brick.
Windows, row on row, to catch the last of the light.
He ran a fine farm, too, you know.
Prize-winning Jersey cattle, chewing cud in a quiet field.
While in the dye house, steam choked the air
and the Sudbury ran with color.
A strange kind of peace, between the pasture and the noise.

And they call it Cordelia's Mill.
For Cordelia M. Fay Burnett, who never once worked the looms.
This is the sound of cassimeres and flannels being born.
The thrum in the heavy timber floors.
The smell of wet wool, lanolin, and dye.
This isn't a town with a mill.
This is a mill that grew a town.
And gave it her name. Cordaville.

But the records forget the hands.
The names that aren't carved on a stone.
The French-Canadian girls at the spinning frames.
The Irish boys hauling the raw bales.
Their only monument is the deep vibration
left inside these floorboards.
Their wages paid, their stories lost to the hum.
Just the hum.

Cordelia's Mill.
The looms fall silent, one by one.
The smell of machine oil fades on the air.
But the river still finds its way downstream.
The Sudbury still remembers the turning.