For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o’er the stony rill,
It murmur’d to St. Osyth’s Mill.”
The Lass replied—“The trees are fled, 150
They’ve cut the brook a straighter bed:
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake.”—
“Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,