In Oxford town, a carpenter named John,
Had a young wife, Alisoun, fair as the dawn.
He doted on her, kept her locked away tight,
But love, like a miller's wheel, it grinds both day and night.

A scholar named Nick, a cunning young man,
Lived with John, with a stargazer's plan.
He lusted for Alisoun, a right merry dance,
This tale of deceit, a bawdy romance.

Nick, with his lute and voice like a song,
Charmed Alisoun, though to John she belonged.
He whispered of love, a forbidden delight,
While poor John the carpenter, snored through the night.

A student named Absalom, with locks flowing gold,
Also desired Alisoun, a story untold.
He joined in the plot, a love triangle's plight,
This tale of deceit, under the pale moonlight.

John, fearing a flood, by Nick's cunning tongue fooled,
Built three baskets, high in the rafters, so rude.
He planned to escape with Alisoun, you see,
While Nick and Absalom, climbed for a rendezvous, oh glee!

A jolly old parish clerk named Wally the wheeze,
Also fell for Alisoun, down on his knees.
He craved a hot meal, some company too,
This tale of deceit, just what will they do?

John climbed to the basket, a terrible crash,
As the rope snapped, leaving him hanging, aghast.
He bellowed for help, a flood's on its way!
But Alisoun and Nick, had a different game to play.

They tricked him with shouts, of a watery doom,
While Absalom climbed, for Alisoun's room.
Nick, with a hot poker, dealt him a blow,
This tale of deceit, getting out of control!

Wally the wheeze, climbed for a tasty treat,
But landed with Absalom, a comical feat.
John, still aloft, his anger did rise,
He cut down the baskets, with fury in his eyes.

The commotion awoke the whole town in a fright,
John, bruised and bewildered, exposed Nick's wicked plight.
Alisoun feigned innocence, a sly, wicked grin,
This tale of deceit, let the laughter begin!

The Miller's tale ends, with a lesson to learn,
Love and trickery, a fire that can burn.
So next time you court, with a heart full of glee,
Remember dear listener, what goes around, comes back to thee!

They die—the dead return not—Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye—
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone—
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.