David Goyle, the Miller Man
“’Tis a strange cap: ’Twill give and take, and fit many heads.”
—Old Volume.
Oh, will you hear with patient ear,
The story I’ll relate
About man’s infidelity,
And learn his losses great?
There lived a little miller once,
Who owned a tiny mill;
While there was water in his pond
The stones were never still.
For not a man the country round,
From Inyo to the Bay,
Was closer to his business found,
Than David Goyle, they say.
Let people pass at eve, or noon,
Or at the break of day,
They’d see the dusty miller there
And hear the hoppers play;
But when the narrow stream run dry,
The miller was at fault;
The rack-a-tacket mill reposed
As silent as a vault.
The little vicious artisan
Had spun his silken snare
Across the dusty flour-chute,
And silent gearing there;
While in the elevator’s cup
Was heard the mouse’s squeak,
And village children in the flume
Dry-shod, played hide-and-seek.
Said David to his wife one day,
“I think, while water’s low,
I’ll take a business trip to town,
Just for a week or so;
I have not ground a peck of grain,
’Tis now eight days or more;
But sat and picked, and picked the stones,
And dressed their surface o’er.”
Then turned his little loving wife—
With much concern, said she,
“I hope while you are stopping there,
That you will careful be;
And shun those dark and narrow streets
Where rogues do congregate,
And look from out their low retreats
As spiders watch and wait.
“Have not the city papers teemed
With incidents, wherein
Some people proved not what they seemed,
And took the stranger in?
Then trust not smiles, or cunning wiles;
Be careful where you tread;
The very ground beneath your feet
With pitfalls may be spread;
There’s not a trick, a trap, or plot,
Or scheme of any sort—
From playing fine to drugging wine—
To which they’ll not resort.”
Then leaned this little miller man
Away back in his chair,
And laughed until his anxious wife
Thought he would strangle there.
Said he, “You much amuse me, wife;
Have you forgot, my dear,
That I have traveled in my life,
And came from Jersey here?
“Or can you for a moment think
Your husband’s mind is crude?
Or deem that I the cup would drink,
By Temperance men tabooed?
Those who can get the start of me,
In country or in town,
By Jove, must early risers be,
And you can put that down.”
For he was vain, this miller man,
Who thought his mind so vast;
But look with me, and we will see
How he comes out at last.
In course of time he reached the town,
To stop a week or more;
And in a large hotel was lodged,
Upon the second floor;
If you should doubt my word in this,
Step over to the “Grand;”
You’ll find his name recorded there,
And in a scrawling hand.
It chanced—but hold! ere more I say,
Or sentence more you read,
Are you prepared with me to stray
Wherever he may lead?
You are! all right, then “on’s” the word,
Again my pen I hold,
And blame me not, if I should jot
Down facts he’d wish untold.
It chanced while Dave was strolling down
A certain crowded street,—
(Its name at present slips my mind,
Or you’d have all complete)—
He met a stranger in the way,
Who brought him to a stand;
He smiled upon him as in joy
And reached a friendly hand.
He hailed the stranger, no, I think,
The stranger him addressed;
I would not do the fellow wrong,
He’s bad enough at best.
The stranger spoke him very free;
He came from Jersey, too;
For he was sharp as one can be;
He thought his folks he knew.
“There was a Goyle;—yes, yes, I’m sure;
How strange that we should meet!
I’ve passed his house a thousand times,
And met him on the street.”
The miller scarce could credit this;
But frank he seemed and fair,
So he resolved to step inside,
And talk the matter there.
There is a drug that bunco men
Do mingle with the wine
They give to country friends like Dave,
For what, I can’t divine.
Perhaps those thoughtful rascals deem
The noisiness of town
Might not allow refreshing sleep
To weigh their eyelids down.
But whether this the cause, or not,
Enough for you and me
To know, the wine that David got
Was not from mixtures free!
Oh! for a club to brain the knave
Who could not see the snare;
Oh! for a spade to dig his grave,
And dump him headlong there.
The night has passed away at last;
Now hand in hand we’ll scout,
Now here, now there, with greatest care,
To search that miller out.
Thus, side and side, we first will glide
O’er letter, word, and line;
Until we stand that house beside,
Where Dave was drinking wine.
Oh, sight! so painful to the eyes,
It dims them like a fog!
Within the house the miller lies,
As still as any log!
And not until the sun was high,
And bells in towers spoke,
From out that deep lethargic sleep
He wonderingly awoke.
He gazed upon the papered wall;
The ceiling overhead;
But strange was paper, pictures all,
The foot-board of the bed.
Swift as the lightning’s flash destroys
The spider’s flimsy toil,
Suspicion traveled through the head
Of the awakening Goyle.
As starts the lodger from repose,
When flames burst in the door,
So suddenly that miller rose,
And bounced upon the floor;
One stride sufficed to reach the chair;
On which his robes were cast;
But seemed it to that man an age,
Until he grasped them fast.
No nimbler does the maiden’s hand
Play o’er the keys of sound,
Than did that miller’s fingers glide
In searching pockets round.
In vain he felt from tail to top;
The thief had gone before,
And harvested a golden crop,
While he did dream and snore.
Gone was his purse, and all within;
A ring he valued more;
Gone watch and chain, the diamond pin
That on his scarf he wore.
His little wife with miser care,
(And warning words, no doubt,)
With her own hands affixed it there
The morning he set out.
Enraged, that miller waltzed around,
And like his hopper shook:
And swore by all the grists he ground,
And all the tolls he took,
That since the days when he was schooled
In games of pitch and toss,
He never was so deeply fooled,
Or so betrayed to loss!
Ten times at least, that pallid man
Strove to insinuate
His nervous limbs into his pants,
But failed to guide them straight.
First hop, hop, hop, to left he went,
Now, hop, hop, hop, to right!
Then hop, hop, backwards, till he rent
The pants asunder quite!
Now partly in and partly out,
He polka’d here and there,
Now chasse up, now chasse back,
Then balanced o’er the chair.
At last his toilet was complete,
The yawning rent was pinned,
And out into the narrow street
He bolted like the wind.
He traveled towards the City Hall,
And vowed at every bound
That justice would he seek and have,
If justice could be found.
The milkmen stopped their reckless drive,
Or dropped the cup and can,
And leaned to catch a glimpse of Dave
As down the street he ran.
Old women early out to mass
When Dave went racking by,
Would jump aside to let him pass,
Then to each other cry:
“The saints protect us! see him go
Upon his wild career;
A crazy creature well I know,
From some asylum near.”
Suffice it here to be explained
Before I close the tale,
The justice David Goyle obtained,
Was not of much avail.
Go net the sea to catch the whale
That did on Jonah dine;
Go rake the land to find the stone
That slew the Philistine;
But seek not her whose hoodwink’d eyes,
Proclaim her dealings just;
Well hangs her balance in the skies,
For here on earth they’d rust.
The rumbling stones are grinding now,
The water’s rushing down;
But do not bet that miller yet
Forgets his trip to town.
For every waking hour he knows
Throughout the twenty-four,
His scowling face and muttering shows
He counts his losses o’er.
There’s not a time he laves his hands,
But what that ring is missed!
(Its gold he gathered from the sands,
A gift the amethyst).
And oh, the query gives him pain,
“What is the time of day?”
For to the missing watch and chain
The miller’s mind will stray.
And now no more upon his breast
The brilliant diamond shines,
Its lustre falls in other halls
Where flow the noxious wines.