Classic Poem

A TRUE BALLAD .

Of all the callings and the trades
Which in our land abound,
The miller's is as useful, sure,
As can on earth be found.

The lord or 'squire of high degree
Is needful to the state,
Because he lets the land he owns
In farms both small and great.

The farmer he manures the land,
Or else what corn could grow?
The ploughman cuts the furrow deep
Ere he begins to sow.

And though no wealth he has, except
The labour of his hands;
Yet honest industry's as good
As houses or as lands.

The thresher he is useful too
To all who like to eat;
Unless he winnow'd well the corn,
The chalf would spoil the wheat.

But vain the squire's and farmer's care,
And vain the thresher's toil;
And vain would be the ploughman's pains
Who harrows up the soil;

And vain, without the miller's aid,
The sowing and the dressing;
Then sure an honest miller—he
Must be a public blessing.

And such a miller now I make
The subject of my song,
Which, though it shall he very true,
Shall not be very long.

This miller lives in Glo'stershire,
I shall not tell his name;
For those who seek the praise of God
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;
To make the matter worse, the mills
Were froze throughout the land.

Our miller dwelt beside a stream,
All underneath the hill;
Which flow'd amain when others froze,
Nor ever stopp'd the mill.

The clam'rous people came from far
This favour'd mill to find,
Both rich and poor our miller sought,
For none but he could grind.

His neighbours 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,
Oft make their num'rous babes a plea
To sanctify the vice.

Our miller scorn'd such counsel base
And when he ground the grain,
With steadfast hand refus'd to touch
Beyond his lawful gain.

“When God afflicts the land,” said he,
“Shall I afflict it more?
“And watch for times of public wo,
“To wrong both rich and poor?

“Thankful to that Almighty Power
“Who makes my river flow,
“I'll use the means he gives to soothe
“A hungry neighbour's wo.

“My river flows when others freeze,
“But 'tis at his command;
“For rich and poor I'll grind alike,
“No bribe shall stain my hand!”

So all the country who had corn
Here found their wants redrest;
May ev'ry village in the land
Be with such millers blest!