by James Ephriam McGirt (1874 - 1930)

Nothing to Do
Language: English 
The fields are white;
   The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle:
   There's nothing to do.
 
Jails are crowded;
   In Sunday-schools few;
We still complain:
   There's nothing to do.
 
Drunkards are dying --
   Your sons, it is true;
Mothers' arms folded
   With nothing to do.
 
Heathens are dying;
   Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
   Find nothing to do?

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2009-03-06
Line count: 16
Word count: 60