'Tis the voice of the sluggard;
I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon,
I must slumber again."
As the door on it's hinges,
So he on his bed
Turns his sides, and his shoulders,
And his heavy head.
"A little more sleep
And a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days
And his hours without number,
And when he gets up
He sits folding his hands,
Or walking about sauntering,
Or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden,
And saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle
Grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him
Are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes
Till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit,
Still hoping to find
That he took better care
For improving his mind;
He told me his dreams,
Talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible,
And never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart,
"Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture
Of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends
For their care in my breeding,
Who taught me bedtimes
To love working and reading."