Alone above the stream it stands, Above the iron hill, The topsy-turvy, tumble-down, Yet habitable mill.
Still as the ringing saws advance To slice the humming deal, All day the pallid miller hears The thunder of the wheel.
He hears the river plunge and roar As roars the angry mob; He feels the solid building quake, The trusty timbers throb.
All night beside the fire he cowers: He hears the rafters jar: O why is he not in a proper house As decent people are!
The floors are all aslant, he sees, The doors are all a-jam; And from the hook above his head All crooked swings the ham.
“Alas,” he cries and shakes his head, “I see by every sign, There soon will be the deuce to pay, With this estate of mine.”