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HONEST MILLER OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
A TRUE BALLAD.
Of all the callings and the trades
Which in our land abound,
As can on earth be found.
The lord or squire of high degree
Is needful to the state,
In farms both small and great.
The farmer, he manures the land,
Or else what corn could grow?
Ere he begins to sow.
And though no wealth he has, except
The labor of his hands,
As houses or as lands.
The thresher, he is useful too
To all who like to eat;
The chaff would spoil the wheat.
But vain the squire's and farmer's care,
And vain the thresher's toil;
Who harrows up the soil;
And vain, without the miller's aid,
The sowing and the dressing :
And such a miller now I make
The subject of my song,
Shall not be very long.
This miller lives in Glo'stershire :
I shall not tell his name;
Desire no other fame.
In last hard winter—who forgets
The frost of ninety-five?Then was all dismal, scarce, and dear,
And no poor man could thrive.
Then husbandry long time stood still,
And work was at a stand ;
Were froze throughout the land.
Our miller dwelt beside a stream,
All underneath the hill; Which flowed amain when others froze,
Nor ever stopped the mill.
The clam'rous people came from far
This favored mill to find;
For none but he could grind.
His neighbors cried, “ Now, miller, seize
The time to heap up store, Since thou of young and helpless babes
Hast got full half a score."
For folks, when tempted to grow rich,
By means not over nice,
To sanctify the vice.
Our miller scorned such counsel base ;
And when he ground the grain, With steadfast hand refused to touch Beyond his lawful gain.
VOL. I. 34
“When God afflicts the land,” said he,
“ Shall I afflict it more?
To wrong both rich and poor?
“ Thankful to that Almighty Power
Who makes my river flow,
A hungry neighbor's wo.
« My river flows when others freeze,
But 'tis at his command;
No bribe shall stain my hand!”
So all the country who had corn
Here found their wants redressed;
Be with such millers blessed !
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD STORY.
PROPER TO BE SUNG AT ALL FEASTS AND MERRY MEETINGS
THERE was a heathen man, sir,
Belonging to a king;
To covet every thing.
And if you don't believe me,
I'll name him, if you please ;
'Twas one Squire Damocles.
He thought that jolly living
Must every joy afford;
While round the festive board.
He wanted to be great, sir,
And feed on fare delicious, And have his feasts in state, sir,
Just like King Dionysius.
The king, to cure his longing,
Prepared a feast so fine, That all the court were thronging
To see the courtier dine.
And there, to tempt his eye, sir,
Was fish, and flesh, and fowl; And when he was a-dry, sir,
There stood the brimming bowl.
Nor did the king forbid him
From drinking all he could ; The monarch never chid him,
But filled him with his food.
O then to see the pleasure
Squire Damocles expressed ! 'Twas joy beyond all measure :
Was ever man so blessed ?
With greedy eyes the squire
Devoured each costly dainty ; You'd think he did aspire
To eat as much as twenty.
But, just as he prepared, sir,
Of bliss to take a swing,
By this so cruel king!
When he to eat intended,
Lo! just above his head, He spied a sword suspended
All by a single thread.