Give me work for my hands to do,
  Whenever I have a grief;
There's no other balm so good I ween
  For a wounded Heart's relief.

And give me something to think about,
  Something beside my pain;
And let me labor throughout the day
  With a busy hand and brain.

From the flush of morn till the gloom of night
  With never a time to weep;
And then in the gloaming let me turn
  Like a weary child to sleep.