Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Little Jerry, the Miller
By John Godfrey Saxe (18161887)B
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.
Alike in summer and winter weather,
He pecked the stones and calked the gate,
And mill and miller grew old together.
They loved him well who called him so;
And whether he ’d ever another name,
Nobody ever seemed to know.
And, “Little Jerry, come grind my wheat”;
And “Little Jerry” was still the cry,
From matron bold and maiden sweet.
And so the simple truth was told;
For Jerry was little when he was young,
And Jerry was little when he was old.
That Jerry made up in being strong;
I ’ve seen a sack upon his back
As thick as the miller, and quite as long.
Always doing his very best,
A notable wag was Little Jerry,
Who uttered well his standing jest.
But how he died there ’s none may know;
One autumn day the rumor came,
“The brook and Jerry are very low.”
The leech had come, and he was dead;
And all the neighbors flocked to see:
“Poor little Jerry!” was all they said.
His miller’s coat his only shroud;
“Dust to dust,” the parson said,
And all the people wept aloud.
And not a grain of over-toll
Had ever dropped into his bin,
To weigh upon his parting soul.
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.