 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
THE MILLER'S SONG.
Hey! for the stone that crushes,
Ho! for the whirling sail,
When the old mill shakes in every plank
Like a vessel in the gale.
Ho! for the whirling sail,
When the old mill shakes in every plank
Like a vessel in the gale.
Hey! for the blast that driveth
The ponderous mill-wheel round,
When of the snow-storm showering,
We hear the mellow sound.
The ponderous mill-wheel round,
When of the snow-storm showering,
We hear the mellow sound.
Hey! for the winds of winter,
When it never bloweth ill;
In the idle breeze of summer,
The miller sitteth still.
When it never bloweth ill;
In the idle breeze of summer,
The miller sitteth still.
When autumn winds come piping,
From the dark rain-fraught cloud,
At the corn's bright golden billows
The miller laugheth loud.
From the dark rain-fraught cloud,
At the corn's bright golden billows
The miller laugheth loud.
When the winds blow fast and fiercer,
In valley and on hill,
When the weary reaper's toiling,
Then faster drives the mill.
In valley and on hill,
When the weary reaper's toiling,
Then faster drives the mill.
In the dull, gray night—the long, long night,
When the frost is on the earth,
A weary man's the miller,
As he sitteth by his hearth.
When the frost is on the earth,
A weary man's the miller,
As he sitteth by his hearth.
139
Hey! for the roaring hurricane,
That tears the forest tree,
For the savage din of tempest
Is the miller's melody.
That tears the forest tree,
For the savage din of tempest
Is the miller's melody.
All bright in wild December,
The whole chill night along,
O'er the buzz within, and the roar without,
Is heard the miller's song.
The whole chill night along,
O'er the buzz within, and the roar without,
Is heard the miller's song.
When the bare, bleak moor is lying
All white beneath the moon,
The north wind roars a thunder bass
To the burly miller's tune.
All white beneath the moon,
The north wind roars a thunder bass
To the burly miller's tune.
When the mill-sails wild are tossing,
Like a spirit's arms on high,
Like the arms of one beseeching
Help from the calm, blue sky.
Like a spirit's arms on high,
Like the arms of one beseeching
Help from the calm, blue sky.
Help from the savage fury
Of the wind that flies above,—
The wind that the blanched millers—
The gray old millers love.
Of the wind that flies above,—
The wind that the blanched millers—
The gray old millers love.
Hey! for the stout nor-wester,
That rattles the cottage pane,
The wind is the miller's vassal,
For it grinds his yellow grain.
That rattles the cottage pane,
The wind is the miller's vassal,
For it grinds his yellow grain.
It may sweep o'er distant mountains,
It may roar across the hill,
It may speed along the barren moor,
But first it drives the mill.
It may roar across the hill,
It may speed along the barren moor,
But first it drives the mill.
Summer's a weary season,
Dull is the sunny earth;
'Mid the cold, gray rain of winter
Is the time for the miller's mirth.
Dull is the sunny earth;
'Mid the cold, gray rain of winter
Is the time for the miller's mirth.
140
No lover's voice seems sweeter
To her that waits to hear,
Than the trumpet shout of the tempest
Unto the miller's ear.
To her that waits to hear,
Than the trumpet shout of the tempest
Unto the miller's ear.
The miller is no coward,
Though he's pale as a frightened maid,
His cheeks are red as the first spring-rose,
In its robe of snow arrayed.
Though he's pale as a frightened maid,
His cheeks are red as the first spring-rose,
In its robe of snow arrayed.
And all night long when the rushing wind
Is roaring loud without,
From the bars of the old mill window
At the stars he looked out.
Is roaring loud without,
From the bars of the old mill window
At the stars he looked out.
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |