There's an old red mill at the foot of the hill;
Hear the mill-wheel turning, turning
To the drip of tears through the long, long years
Of my heart's relentless yearning--
Oh, the tender note of the catch in his throat,
Oh, the tear that he dried with laughter;
"I'll be back some day--
Mind the mill while I'm away,"
And he waved one last kiss floating after.
Gone is the miller boy,
Gone from the mill;
Gone up the winding road,
Gone o'er the hill;
Gone with the drum-beat up over the hill,
Where he heard the bugles calling.
There's no grist for the mill or siller for the till,
But I've kept the mill-wheel turning
To the rumble and the beat of a million marching feet,
And my sad heart's muffled yearning.
Oh, the road his brave feet trod, lit with glory up to God,
Oh, the courage of his call shames my sorrow;
"I'll be back some day--
Mind the mill while I'm away,"
And I caught one last kiss for tomorrow.
Gone is the miller boy,
Gone from the mill;
Gone up the winding road,
Gone o'er the hill;
Gone with the drum-beat up over the hill,
Where he heard the bugles calling.