The passing hour—the miller stops his wheel
To gather headway for the coming task—
And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team,
With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath
The rustic shade the careless teamster waits—
With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool,
And hat of undyed felt cocked o’er his eye—
There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd,
Stands in his brogans every inch a King.
Approach him, sage professor, as you list,