From whencesoe’er, he comes to grind;
He hath a will and knows the way.
He gives the creaking sails a spin,
The circling millstones faster flee,
The shuddering timbers groan within,
And down the shoot the meal runs free.
The miller giveth him no thanks,
And doth not much his work o’erlook:
He stands beside the sacks, and ranks
The figures in his dusty book.