THEY say somewhere in the distance fair,
Is the town of Nothing-to-Do,
Where the sun, they say, shines every day
And the skies are always blue;
Where no one tries for a silver prize
And no one strives for gold,
There, every race has taken place,
And every tale been told.
The blacksmith sings as his anvil rings
Of the town of Nothing-to-Do,
And vows in his song, though the road is long
When with anvil and forge he's through
He will wander far, where the glad folks are,
And will rest in that happy town;
He dreams of the day when he'll put for aye
His apron and hammer down.
O, it matters not what the toiler's lot,
Be he preacher or soldier brave,
Though he delve a ditch, be he great or rich,
Be judge or a statesman grave,
He dreams always of the future days
When he'll go to Nothing-to-Do,
When he's faced life's test, and his hands will rest
And his time of toil is through.
But Nothing-to-Do, folks tell me, who
Have journeyed the hills and found it,
Is a hollow fake and a big mistake,
For the streams of care surround it.
And the people there, they all declare,
Are gloomy and sad and sighing,
And they yearn for strife, for the joy of life
Is something to do worth trying.
