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C.J.S.

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1

There was a miller, as you shall hear,

Long time he lived in Devonshire,

He was took sick and deadly ill,

And had no time to write his will!

He was took sick and deadly ill,

And had no time to write his will.

2

So he call'd up his eldest son,

Said he, "My glass is almost run.

If I to thee my mill shall give,

Tell me what toll thou'lt take to live?"

3

"Father," said he, "My name is Jack,

From every bushel I'll take a peck.

From every grist that I do grind,

That I may thus good living find."

4

"Thou art a fool," the old man said,

"Thou hast not half acquired thy trade.

My mill to thee I ne'er will give

For by such toll no man can live."

5

Then he call'd up his second son,

Said he, "My glass is almost run.

If I to thee my mill shall make,

Tell me what toll to live thou'lt take?"

6

"Father you know my name is Ralph,

From every bushel I'll take a half

From every grist that I do grind,

That I may thus a living find."

7

"Thou art a fool," the old man said;

"Thou hast not half acquired thy trade.

My mill to thee I will not give,

For by such toll no man may live."

8

Then he call'd up his youngest son,

Says he, "My glass is almost run.

If I to thee my mill shall make

Tell me what toll, to live, thou'lt take?"

9

"Father I am your youngest boy.

In taking toll is all my joy.

Before I would good living lack,

I'd take the whole—forswear the sack."

10

"Thou art the boy," the old man said,

"For thou hast full acquired the trade.

The mill is thine," the old man cried,

He laugh'd, gave up the ghost, and died.