James Ephraim McGirt

Born like the pines to sing,
The harp and song in m’ breast,
Though far and near,
There’s none to hear,
I’ll sing as th’ winds request.

To tell the trend of m’ lay,
Is not for th’ harp or me;
I’m only to know,

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.