James Ephraim McGirt

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?

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, From the winds that blow, What th’ theme of m’ song shall be. Born like the pines to sing, The harp and th’ song in m’ breast, As th’ winds sweep by, I’ll laugh or cry, In th’ winds I cannot rest.