Upon th’ unprofitable stream;
Whang’s duty bade him sleep and dream.
I will not say but Whang was born
With sense enough to grind his corn,
Or on a market-day to tell
Whether ’twere good to buy or sell;
But since the store his neighbour found,
I dare not say his wits were sound.
In sad neglect the mill-wheel stood
That long supplied his daily food;