Owd Jeremy Gigg, a miller was he,
In Lancashire born and bred;
The mill was all he depended on,
To earn him his daily bread.
Owd Jeremy he was growing owd,
His latter end it was near;
He had three sons, and it puzzled him sore
Which of 'em should be his heir.
Now he call'd to him his eldest son,-
"An answer give to me:
What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak',
If my mill I left to thee?"
"Oh if the mill were mine," said he,
"I'll plainly tell to yeaw,
Out of every seck I'd tak' a peck,
As yeaw've been used to do."
Now he call'd to him his second son--
"An answer give to me:
What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak'
If my mill were given to thee?"
"Oh, if the mill were mine," said he,
"As sure as my name's Rafe,
Instead of a peck out of every seck,
I'm sure I'd tak one-hawf."
Now he call'd to him his youngest son;
His youngest son was Will;
"On the answer theaw does give to me,
Depends who gets the mill."
"Oh, if the mine," said he,
"A living I would mek;
Instead o' one-hawf I'd tek it all,
And cheat 'em out o' th' seck."
Then owd Jeremy he rose up in bed,
To hear him talk so smart;
Saying, "Well done, Will! Theaw's won the mill;
Theaw'rt the lad o' meh heart!"
The other two look'd rather blue,
An' swore it wur too bad;
But little Will, he won the mill,
And the Devil he got his dad.