’Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,

‘You have waked me too soon! I must slumber again!’

As the door on its hinges, so he on his bead

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 walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,

The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher:

The clothes that hang 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

He had took better care for improving his mind:

He told me his dreams, talk’d 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!

That man’s but a picture of what I might be;

But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,

Who have taught me by times to love working and reading!’