Grist ground at Last.
OR,
The Frolick in the Mill.
Millers that grind each pretty Lasses Grist,
Consider now how many you have kist:
And see if any with kind Molly can
Compare: if not, pray all from hence be gone.
Yet stay and hear the Song, 'tis rare and new;
And Millers know such things are often true.
Tune of, Give ear a while, etc. or, Winchester Wedding.
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GIve ear a while to my Ditty,
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all you that intend to be merry
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I'll sing you a song that's witty
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of which you will never be wear[y]
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The matter I plain must tell ye,
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is of a conceit refin'd,
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The pretty device of Molly,
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who has so often been kind:
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Says old Symon the King,
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says old Symon the King,
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With a thread-bare Cloak and a mamsy Nose,
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sing hey ding, ding, a ding, ding.
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She went to the Mill with her Grist,
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to see it most neatly ground,
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But found the Miller i' th' Mist,
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for his stones they would not go round.
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He try'd, and he try'd again,
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but he could not make them obey;
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His labour he lost in vain,
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and could not tell what to say:
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Saies old Symon the King,
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saies old Symon the King,
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With a thread-bare Cloak and a mamsy nose,
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sing hey ding, ding, a ding, ding.
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She takes the matter in hand
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as loath of any delay,
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Whilst the Miller amazed did stand,
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she thus unto him did say:
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Come hoist up the Canvas with speed,
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and I'l make the Stones go round;
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The Cogs from Cob-webs once freed,
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my Grist will quickly be ground:
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Saies old Symon the King,
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saies old Symon the King,
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With a thread-bare Cloak and a mamsy Nose
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sing hey ding ding a ding ding.
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Then strait the sailes were drawn up,
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expos'd to the weather and wind;
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When as the Miller a top,
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the weather-vein right did find;
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Yet found the motion but small,
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which made him begin to misdoubt,
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That he should do nothing at all,
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for Molly began to pout:
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Saies old Symon etc.
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But urging her Grist to be ground,
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the fault she long searcht to know,
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And the Vice of the Mill she found,
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for why? the Stones were too low;
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Then gently she moved the Beam,
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and setl'd them in their place,
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When round the sailes did skim,
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and her Grist was ground apace.
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Saies old Symon etc.
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More Sacks on the Mill was the cry,
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let's now work and save the wind;
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But at last the Miller lay by,
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he had no more Grist to grind:
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But glad was to find one so witty
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to help him out at a dead lift,
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Swearing that none so pretty
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had e're set his Mill adrift:
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Saies old Symon etc.
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Her Grist she had Tole-free away,
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& might have the like when she pleas'd
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For the Miller he ne'r said her nay,
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since his labour was mightily eas'd:
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The Lasses that came to the Mill,
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they envy'd poor Molly 'tis true;
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But let them say all what they will,
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Molly's the best of the Crew:
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Saies old Symon the King,
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saies old Symon the King,
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With a thread-bare Cloak and a mamsy Nose,
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sing hey ding ding a ding ding.
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