A SONG OF A MILLER
The Lancashire Miller
Owd Jeremy Clegg, a miller was he,
In Lancashire born and bred;
The mill was all he depended upon
To earn his daily bread.
Owd Jeremy he was growing owd,
His latter end was near,
He had three sons and it puzzled him sore
Which of 'em to make his heir.
Now he called to him his eldest son,-
"An answer give to me,
What way would thy take they bread to make
If I left the mill to thee?"
"Oh if the mill were mine," said he,
"I'll tell you plain enough,
Out of every sack I'd take a peck,
As you've been used to do."
Now he called to him his second son,-
"An answer give to me,
Which way would tha take thy bread to make
If the mill were given to thee?""
"Oh if the mill were mine," said he,
"As sure as my mame's Rawl,
Instead of a peck out of every sack
I'm sure I'd take one half."
Now he called to him his youngest son,
His youngest son was Will,
"On the answer that tha gives to me
Depends on who will get the mill."
"Oh if the mill were mine," said he
"A livin' I would make,
Instead of a half, I'd take it all,
And swear 'em out of the sack."
Then Owd Jeremy rose up in bed,
To hear him talk so smart,
Saying, "Well done, Will, tha's won the mill,
Thou art the lad of my own heart."
While the other two looked rather blue,
An' swore it were to bad,
But little Will, he won the mill,
And the Devil he got his dad!
ANON
"I don't think any Fylde or Over Wyre millers would advocate such rascality and that is why I don't think this ballad is a product of Windmill Land. I think it originated somewhere amid the hills in the Chipping District."
A. Clarke.
22 December 2007, shirley