Nothing To Do
J
James Ephraim McGirt
0
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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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