My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay;
He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way,
While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain;
And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain.
He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
The wheat will never show a top--but soon how green the field!
We will not harvest half a crop--yet have a famous yield!
It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure,
Yet my good man is full of fear--misfortune's coming sure!
He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong,
He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong.
Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
_Fannie Windsor._