Route 1, New Haven, Indiana 46774
Across the river, and up the hill
Beside the road stands the old sawmill. With shattered windows
and broken back;
Just a little old mill with a rusty stack.
The Sun shines thru the hinge less door,
On rotted husk and sagging floor. But the wheels stand still,
and the belts hang slack
In the little old mill with the rusty stack.
Its past comes to me like a dream;
Of singing saws and hissing steam. While the carriage roared
o’er the shining track
In the little old mill with the rusty stack.
Those were the days when the World seemed bright,
And we never had heard of a Satellite;
Or a Welfare State, or an Income Tax,
In the little old mill with the rusty stack.
Those were the days when I was young:
And life seemed an Eternal song, But those days are gone and
will never be back
For me, or the mill with the rusty stack.
My life on Earth will soon be o’er; And I’ll slip away
to the Other Shore.
Of one thing I’m sure: I will never be back
To the little old mill with the rusty stack.
