When I was a miller in Fife,
Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer
Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,
To help to be brose to your supper.
Then my conscience was narrow and pure,
But someway by random it racket;
For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,
While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill and the kill,
The garland and gear for my cogie,
Hey for the whisky and yill,
That washes the dust frae my craigie.
Although it 's been lang in repute
For rogues to mak rich by deceiving,
Yet I see that it does not weel suit
Honest men to begin to the thieving;
For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,
Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;
Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,
Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
A man that 's been bred to the plough,
Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;
Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough
After kenning what 's said by the happer.
I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,
Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?
But when I grew dry for a horn,
It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,
Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;
Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,
Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.
I had lang been accustom'd to drink,
And aye when I purposed to quat it,
That thing wi' its clappertie clink
Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing I did in my life,
Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,
Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife
A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;
I have aye had a voice a' my days,
But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;
Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please
The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am,
This far I can see through the matter,
There 's men mair notorious to fame,
Mair greedy than me or the muter;
For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,
Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,
Had some speaking happer within,
That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.
Air—"Gregor Arora."
Oh, sweet were the hours
That I spent wi' my Flora,
In yon gay shady bowers,
Roun' the linn o' the Cora!