The Mill Stream by Mary Howitt

The Mill Stream.

Long trails of cistus flowers

Creep on the rocky hill,

And beds of strong spearmint

Grow round about the mill;

And from a mountain tarn above,

As peaceful as a dream,

Like to a child unruly,

Though school'd and counsell'd truly,

Roams down the wild mill stream!

The wild mill stream it dasheth

In merriment away,

And keeps the miller and his son

So busy all the day.

Into the mad mill stream

The mountain roses fall;

And fern and adder's-tongue

Grow on the old mill wall.

The tarn is on the upland moor,

Where not a leaf doth grow;

And through the mountain gashes,

The merry mill stream dashes

Down to the sea below.

But in the quiet hollows

The red trout groweth prime,

For the miller and the miller's son

To angle when they've time.

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain mill;

And fair befall the narrow road

That windeth up the hill!

And good luck to the countryman,

And to his old grey mare,

That upward toileth steadily,

With meal sacks laden heavily,

In storm as well as fair!

And good luck to the miller,

And to the miller's son;

And ever may the mill-wheel turn

While mountain waters run!

Mary Howitt.