In eighteen eighty-seven, a thread was spun,  

A mill was born in Fort Mill’s hands.  

Samuel White’s vision had just begun,  

To weave a legacy across the lands.  

 

The looms turned fast, the cotton flowed,  

Textiles built the town's strong frame.  

But after White’s life took its final road,  

Leroy Springs stepped into the game.  

 

With his fierce will, he pushed the mill,  

Though labor strikes did rise in waves.  

A bullet struck, yet he stood still,  

Managing from afar, but never gave.  

 

Elliott, his son, took the spindle’s hold,  

Springs Mills grew with every thread.  

New fabrics, new dreams, both bold and old,  

As the world’s demands were fed.  

 

Through war and peace, the town did grow,  

Grace Bleachery shining bright and new.  

The mills hummed on, with steady flow,  

A city’s heart, its pulse, its hue.  

 

But as the years wound on, times changed,  

The young no longer sought the mill.  

New trades, new faces, rearranged,  

Yet Fort Mill’s spirit lingers still.  

 

Now buildings rise where looms once stood,  

And I, like them, have found my place.  

From Vietnam’s shores to Fort Mill’s wood,  

This town’s embrace is my saving grace.  

 

Though cotton fades and factories close,  

Fort Mill’s roots run deep and true.  

It’s here I’ve watched the town transpose,  

And found a home in something new.