"Nothing to do," is labour enough,
To the man of heart, the man of brain;
Better for him, the world to rough,
To toil in hunger, to toil in pain,
Than idly live, with an aimless aim,
Playing out life in a gainless game.
Labour is rest to the man of soul,
The man who treasures the gift of Time;
"Nothing to do," is a sluggard's goal;
A life of ease is a life of crime;
A play with Time is a game of loss,
A staking our all on a gamester's toss.
"Nothing to do," can never be said;
While it is day, there is work to be done!
Work for the pen, and work for the spade—
Work for all workers under the sun;
The call to work is a common call,
A call to be answered by one and by all.
Answer the call with a love and a will,
Be it to heart, or be it to brain;
Be it to battle and conquer an ill,
Be it to comfort a brother in pain;
Whatever it be, to the front of the van!
There is something to do; to thy name—be a man!
