Maggy Lauther (1824, Edinburgh)/The Miller

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The Miller.

O merry may the maid be,
That marries the Miller,
For foul day and fair day
He's ay bringing till her.
He's ay a penny in his purse,
For dinner or for supper,
And gin she please a gude fat cheese,
And lumps o' yellow butter.

When Jamie first did woo me,
I spier'd what was his calling;
Fair maid, says he O come and see,
Ye're welcome to my dwalling;
Tho' I was shy yet I cou'd spy
The truth o' what he told me,
And that his house was warm and couth,
And room enough to hold me.

Behint the door a bag o' meal,
And in the kist was plenty,
Of good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And bannocks were na scanty;
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
Was standing in the byre;
While lazy puss with meally mouse,
Was playing at the fire.

Good signs are these my mither says,
And bids me tak the miller;
For foul day and fair day
He's ay bringing till her;
For meal and maut she disna want.
Nor ony thing that's dianty;
And now and then a gude fat hen
To lay her eggs in plenty.

In winter, when the wind and rain
Blaws o'er the house and byre.
He sits beside a clean hearth-stane
Before a rousing fire;
With nut-brown ale he tells his tale,
Which rows him o'er fu' nappy,
Who d be a king—hat petty thing,
When a miller lives sae happy.