The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the Miller’s veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind.
And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.
And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air,