Classic Poem

It's of a crafty miller and he
Had able sons one, two and three.
He called them all to make his will
To see which one should take the mill.

With me wack fol the riddle ol
The riddle ol the dee

The miller called for his eldest son,
Said he, ‘My days are almost done,
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?’

‘Father,’ he said, ‘my name is Jack,
From every bushel I'll take a peck,
And every bushel that I grind
The profits they'll be large I'll find.’

‘Thou art a fool,’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not learned well thy trade;
To take such toll no man would live,
To thee the mill I ne'er will give.’

The miller called for his second son,
Said he, ‘My days are almost done,
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?’

‘Father,’ he said, ‘my name is Ralph,
From every bushel I'll take a half
And every bushel that I grind
The profits they'll be large I'll find.’

‘Thou art a fool,’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not learned well thy trade;
To take such toll no man would live,
To thee the mill I ne'er will give.’

The miller called for his youngest son,
Said he, ‘My days are almost done,
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?’

‘Father,’ he said, ‘I am your boy,
To take the toll will be my joy.
Before I shall good living lack,
I'll take it all, forswear the sack.’

‘Thou art my boy,’ the old man said,
‘And thou hast learned well thy trade.
I give the mill to thee,’ he cried,
Then he turned on his side and died.