399 



THE OLD GRIST-MILL. 



Back to the days of my boyhood 



My thoughts fly on memory's wmgs, 

 I see the old mill in its glory; 



What spray the big ^Yater-wheel flings. 

 As the buckets strike the water 



With merry, pattering sound, 

 And what rattling peals the counter-wheels 

 Ring out as they whirl around ! 



Hark how the mill-stones rumble 



As the golden grain runs through! 

 List to the clattering " damsel "^^ 



Shaking the agueish "shoe! 

 Swiftly is gliding the belting-- 



The cogs reel round in a maze- 

 As with mute surprise in my juvenile eyes 



I wondering stand and gaze. 



There stands the miller musing 

 On the ups and downs of corn. 



His form appears bowed down with years 

 And the weighty sacks he's borne. 



Dust wraps him round like a halo- 

 Dented his mealy hat— 



An honest old man is the miller I scan, 

 Though they say his hogs are fat. 



Weighing out quarters of flour- 

 Measuring bushels of feed- 

 Plenty of grist work his dower- 

 Plenty of water his need. 

 Toiling from morning till even, 



Grinding the golden grain ; 

 When death one day chanced over that way 

 And heavenward jogged the twain. 



