‘Tom Treloar,’ cried out Mal, ‘I’ll nothing do wi’ ’ee, Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I’m shy; Tom, this here t’other daa, down the hill thee didst stap, And dab’d a great doat fig {193} in Fan Trembaa’s lap.’ ‘As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne’er taalked wi’ her twice, And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice; So I’ll tell thee, I went to the fear t’other day, And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.’ Says Mal, ‘Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase, May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace; Ef thee’st give me thy doat figs thee’st boft in the fear, I’ll swear to thee now, thee shu’st marry me here.’ THE MILLER AND HIS SONS. [A MILLER, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the ‘rogues in grain,’ the following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see _Popular Music_.] THERE was a crafty miller, and he Had lusty sons, one, two, and three: He called them all, and asked their will, If that to them he left his mill. He called first to his eldest son, Saying, ‘My life is almost run; If I to you this mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?’ ‘Father,’ said he, ‘my name is Jack; Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck, From every bushel that I grind, That I may a good living find.’ ‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said, ‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade; This mill to thee I ne’er will give, For by such toll no man can live.’ He called for his middlemost son, Saying, ‘My life is almost run; If I to you this mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?’ ‘Father,’ says he, ‘my name is Ralph; Out of a bushel I’ll take a half, From every bushel that I grind, That I may a good living find.’ ‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said, ‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade; This mill to thee I ne’er will give, For by such toll no man can live.’ He called for his youngest son, Saying, ‘My life is almost run; If I to you this mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?’ ‘Father,’ said he, ‘I’m your only boy, For taking toll is all my joy! Before I will a good living lack, I’ll take it all, and forswear the sack!’ ‘Thou art my boy!’ the old man said, ‘For thou hast right well learned thy trade; This mill to thee I give,’ he cried,— And then he turned up his toes and died. JACK AND TOM. AN OULD BORDER DITTIE. (TRADITIONAL.)