O the Miller he laughed, And the liquor he quaffed; But the beggar new marvels was hatching:-- Quoth he "I'm a clerk, And I swear, by saint Mark, That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching!"-- O the wife she looked scared, And wildly Grist stared, And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay,--thou'rt not able!"-- But the lad plied his chalk, And muttered strange talk-- Till Grist drew his stool from the table! Then the lad quenched the rush, And cried, "Bring a gorse-bush, And under the caldron now kindle!"-- But the Miller cried, "Nay! Give over, I pray!"-- For his courage began fast to dwindle. Quoth the lad, "I must on Till my conjuring's done; To break off just now would be ruin: So fetch me the thorns,-- And a devil without horns, In the copper I soon will be brewing!"-- O the Miller he shook For fear his strange cook Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful; But feeling ashamed That his pluck should be blamed, Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful. So the fuel he brought, And said he feared nought Of the Devil being brewed in his copper: He'd as quickly believe Nick would sit in his sieve, Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper:-- And yet, lest strange ill, From such conjuring skill, Should arise, and their souls be in danger,-- He would have his crab-stick, And would show my lord Nick Some tricks to which he was a stranger! O the lad 'gan to raise 'Neath the caldron a blaze,-- While the Miller, his crab-cudgel grasping, Stood on watch, for his life!-- But his terrified wife Her hands--in devotion--was clasping! When the copper grew warm, Quoth the lad, "Lest some harm From the visit of Nick be betiding,-- Set open the door, And not long on the floor Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding!" Quickly so did the host, And returned to his post,-- Uplifting his cudgel with trembling:-- His strength was soon proved,-- For the copper-lid moved!-- When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling. Turning white as the wall, His staff he let fall,-- While the Devil from the caldron ascended,-- And, all on a heap,-- With a flying leap, On the fear-stricken Miller descended! In dread lest his soul, In the Devil's foul goal, Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder,-- Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat, And his grisly eyes smote,-- Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder! Yea, with many a thwack, Grist battered Nick's back,-- Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen!-- Hot Nick had lain cold By this time--but his hold Grist lost, through the screams of his woman! While up from the floor, And out, at the door, Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer! He seemed panic-struck,-- Or, doubted his luck,-- For he neither staid question nor answer!