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The Oldham Tinkers
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The Lancashire Miller
Owd Jeremy Gigg, a miller was he,
In Lancashire born and bred;
The mill was all he depended on,
To earn him his daily bread.
Owd Jeremy he was growing owd,
His latter end it was near;
He had three sons, and it puzzled him sore
Which of 'em should be his heir.
Now he call'd to him his eldest son,-
'An answer give to me:
What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak',
If my mill I left to thee?'
'Oh if the mill were mine,' said he,
'I'll plainly tell to yeaw,
Out of every seck I'd tak' a peck,
As yeaw've been used to do.'
Now he call'd to him his second son--
'An answer give to me:
What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak'
If my mill were given to thee?'
'Oh, if the mill were mine,' said he,
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'As sure as my name's Rafe,
Instead of a peck out of every seck,
I'm sure I'd tak one-hawf.'
Now he call'd to him his youngest son;
His youngest son was Will;
'On the answer theaw does give to me,
Depends who gets the mill.'
'Oh, if the mine,' said he,
'A living I would mek;
Instead o' one-hawf I'd tek it all,
And cheat 'em out o' th' seck.'
Then owd Jeremy he rose up in bed,
To hear him talk so smart;
Saying, 'Well done, Will! Theaw's won the mill;
Theaw'rt the lad o' meh heart!'
The other two look'd rather blue,
An' swore it wur too bad;
But little Will, he won the mill,
And the Devil he got his dad.
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