The Miller by the Shore an East Coast Chanty
Reading edition
The miller by the shore am I, A man o’ despert sense; I’ve fotty different soorts o’ ways O’ addlin’ honest pence. Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns My mill grinds all t’ day lang ; Frae faave ’o t’ morn while seven o’ t’ neet My days are varra thrang.
Chorus
I mill a bit, I till a bit, I dee all maks ’o jobs, Frae followin’ ploos and hollowin’ coos To mendin’ chairs and squabs.[1] Oh! folks they laugh and girn at me, I niver tak it ill; If I’s the Jack ’o ivery trade, They all bring grist to t’ mill. I tend my hunderd yakker farm, An’ milk my Kyloe kye. I’ve Lincoln yowes an’ Leicester tups An’ twenty head ’o wye.[2] I’ve stirks to tak to Scarbro’ mart, I’ve meers for farmers’ gigs; And oh! I wish that you could see My laatle sookin’ pigs. I mill a bit. ... When summer days graws lang an’ breet, Oot cooms my “Noah’s Arks,” Wheer city folk undriss theirsels An’ don my bathin’ sarks.[3] An’ when they git on land agean, I rub’ em smooth as silk; Then bring’ em oot, to fill their weeams, My parkin ceakes an’ milk. I mill a bit. ... I pike[4] stray timmer on the shore, An’ cuvins[5] on the scar; I know wheer crabs ’ll hugger up,[6] I know wheer t’ lobsters are. I’ve cobles fishin’ oot i’ t’ bay, For whitings, dabs and cods, I’ve herrin’ trawls and salmon nets, I’ve hooks and lines and rods. I mill a bit. ... On darksome neets, back-end ’o t’ yeer, I like another sport; I row my boat wheer t’ lugger lies, Coom frae some foreign port; A guinea in a coastguard’s poke Will mak him steck his een ; So he says nowt when I coom yam Wi’ scent and saccharine. I mill a bit. ...