Classic Poem

" If I'd nothing to do, " said Farmer John,
" To fret or to bother me —
Were I but rid of this mountain of work,
What a good man I could be. "

" The pigs get out, and the cows get in
Where they have no right to be:
And the weeds in the garden and in the corn —
Why, they fairly frighten me. "

" It worries me out of temper quite,
And well nigh out of my head.
What a curse it is that a man must toil
Like this for his daily bread. "

But Farmer John broke his leg,
And was kept for many a week
A helpless and an idle man; —
Was he therefore mild and meek?

Nay: what with the pain, and what with the fret
Of sitting with nothing to do —
And the farm work blotched by a shiftless hand,
He got very cross and blue.

He scolded the children and cuffed the dog
That fawned about his knee;
And snarled at his wife, though she was kind
And patient as a wife could be.

He grumbled and whined and fretted and fumed,
The whole long day through.
" Twill ruin me quite, " cried Farmer John,
" To sit here with nothing to do! "

But the time wore on, and he thoughtful grew,
As he watched his patient wife.
And he vowed one morn with a tear in his eye,
He would lead a different life.

His hurt got well, and he went to work;
And a busier man than he,
A happier man, or a pleasanter man.
You never would wish to see.

The pigs got out, and he drove them back,
Whistling right merrily;
He mended the fence, and kept the cows
Just where they ought to be.

Weeding the garden was jolly fun,
And ditto hoeing the corn.
" I'm happier far, " said Farmer John,
" Than I have been since I was born. "

He learned a lesson that lasted him well; —
'Twill last him his whole life through.
He frets but seldom, and never because
He has plenty of work to do.

" I tell you what, " says Farmer John,
" They are either knaves or fools
Who long to be idle, for idle hands
Are the Devil's chosen tools! "