"Thou foolish son," the old man said,
"Thou hasn't but one half larnt thy trade!
The mill to you I'll never give,
For by such toll no man can thrive."
He called to him his second son,
Saying, "My life is almost done,
And if I to you the mill shall make,
Pray, say what toll you mean to take?"
"Father," says he, "my name is Ralph,
And aout of each bushel I'll take one half—
Of every bushel that I grind,
I'll take one half to ease my mind."
"Thou foolish son," the old man said,
"Thou hasn't but one half larnt thy trade;
The mill to you I'll never give,
For by such toll no man can thrive."
He called to him his youngest son,
Saying, "My life is almost done;
And if I to you the mill shall make,
Pray, say what toll you mean to take?"
"Father," says he, "I am your boy,
And in taking of toll shall be all my joy;
That an honest living I ne'er may lack,
I'll take the whole, and steal the sack."
"Thou art my son," the old man said;
"Thou'st larnt thy good—old—fayther's trade;
The mill to you I do—betide"—
And—so—he—closed—his eyes—and—died.
Another version finds its way to us from the West, and ends with an uncomplimentary opinion as to the habitation of the miller in the other world.