That scallops the window panes;
Why, the dear old miller’s honest face,
He’s counting his losses and gains,
And methinks on his visage I can trace
A look that my own heart pains.
Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds—
We beggars encircle his door,
While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds
To the humble, the rich, and the poor.
Sure there’s a reward for such generous deeds,