The Derby Miller / The Miller's Three Sons

It's of a crafty miller and he
Had able sons one two and three.
He called them all to make his will
To see which one should take the mill.

There was an old miller in Derbyshire,
In Derbyshire did dwell.
Now this old miller he had three sons,
The miller, the miller did well.

Chorus (after each verse):

With me wack fol the riddle ol
The riddle ol the dee

The miller called for his eldest son,
Said he, “My days are almost done.
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?”

Now he called up his eldest son,
“Oh son, oh son, my race is run.
And if to you my mill I'd leave
Pray tell me the toll that you'd receive.”

“Father,” he said, “My name is Jack,
From every bushel I'll take a peck,
And every bushel that I grind
The profits they'll be large I'll find.”

“Oh father, oh father, my name it is Dick,
I'd grind the corn and I'd swear a peck.
And every grit that I do grind
A very good living I should find.”

“Thou art a fool,” the old man said,
“Thou hast not learned well thy trade.
To take such toll no man could live,
To thee the mill I ne'er will give.”

“No, you are a foolish knave,
You have not learnt your father's trade.
And when I'm dead and in decay
I know you will fool my mill away.”

So a rogue he lived and a rogue he died,
He opened his mouth and he gapped away.

The miller called for his second son,
Said he, “My days are almost done.
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?”

Now he called up his second son,
“Oh son, oh son, my race is run.
And if to you my mill I'd leave
Pray tell me the toll that you'd receive.”

“Father,” he said, “My name is Ralph,
From every bushel I'll take a half,
And every bushel that I grind
The profits they'll be large I'll find.”

“Oh father, oh father, my name it is Ralph,
I'd grind the corn and I'd swear a half.
And every grit that I do grind
A very good living I should find.”

“Thou art a fool,” the old man said,
“Thou hast not learned well thy trade.
To take such toll no man could live,
To thee the mill I ne'er will give.”

“No, you are a foolish knave,
You have not learnt your father's trade.
And when I'm dead and in decay
I know you will fool my mill away.”

So a rogue he lived and a rogue he died,
He opened his mouth and he gapped away.

The miller called for his youngest son,
Said he, “My days are almost done.
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?”

Now he called up his youngest son,
“Oh son, oh son, my race is run.
And if to you my mill I'd leave
Pray tell me the toll that you'd receive.”

“Father,” he said, “I am your boy,
To take the toll will be my joy.
Before I shall good living lack
I'll take it all, I'll forswear the sack.”

“Oh father, oh father, my name it is Jack,
I'd grind the corn and I'd swear the sack.
And every grit that I do grind
A very good living I should find.”

“Thou art my boy the old man said
And thou hast learned well thy trade.
I give the mill to thee,” he cried,
Then he turned on his side and died.

“Yes, you are a stout young blade,
You truly learned your father's trade.
And when I'm dead and in decay
I know you won't fool my mill away.”

So a rogue he lived and a rogue he died,
He opened his mouth, and his prayers, dropped his toes … and died.

There once was a miller and he lived all alone,
He had three sons all fully grown.
When he went for to make his will
All he had left was a little old mill.

The sun comes up and the sun comes down
To mark a brand new day.

And so he called to him his eldest son:
“Son, oh son, my race is run.
If I a miller of you make
Pray tell me what toll will you take?”

“Oh father, father, my name is Bill,
Out of each sack I'd take a gill.”
“You fool, you fool,” the old man cried,
“Out of such a little you can never make a ride!”

And the sun comes up and the sun comes down
To mark a brand new day.

So he called to him his second son:
“Son, oh son, my race is run.
If I a miller of you make
Pray tell me what toll will you take?”

“Oh father, father, my name is Ralph,
Out of each sack, I'd take the half.”
“You fool, you fool,” the old man cried,
“Out of such a little you can never make a ride!”

And the sun comes up and the sun comes down
To mark a brand new day.

So he called to him his youngest son:
“Son, oh son, my race is run.
If I a miller of you make
Pray tell me what toll will you take?”

“Oh father, father, my name is Jack,
I'd take the lot, forswear the sack.”
“Hallelujah!” the old man cried,
And the old woman turned up her toes and she died.

And the sun comes up and the sun comes down
To mark a brand new day.

So they wrapped him up in a neat cow's hide
And some do say his soul it died.
Where he went no-one could say
But I rather fear that he went the other way.

And the sun comes up and the sun comes down
To mark a brand new day.