The Old Mill

Here from the brow of the hill I look, Through a lattice of twughs and leaves, On the old gray mili with its gauibrel roof, And the inoss oq its rotting eaves. I hear the clatter that jars its walls, And the rushing water's sound. And I see tbe black floats riso and fall As the wheel goes slowly round. I rode there often when I was young, With uiy grist on the horse before, And talked with Nelly, the iniller's girl. As I waited my turn at the door. And while she tosseit her ringlets brown, And ñirted and chatted so free, The wheel might step, the wheel might go It wts all the saine to me. Tis twenty yeare Bince last I stood On the spot where I stand to-day, And Nelly is wed, and the inlller is dead, And the mili and I are gray. But both, till we faH into ruin and wreek, To our fortune "f toil are hound; And the man goes, and the stream flows, And the wheel moves slowly round.