Maggie's Farm

When you sit in the blind awaiting the flight
Of the white-breasted northern sprig,
While they circle high and think to light,
And they look so close and big,
You whisper your pard, as you both crouch low,
Now! Don't wait too long!
You shoot too far and off they go;
Whatever you do is wrong!

Then you curse yourself for a fool greenhorn,
Your pride has had a blow;
Sullen you sit and smoke and mourn,
When in comes a bunch, fair low!
You watch them circle round and round,
Just let them work along!
When off they swing, southward bound;
Whatever you do is wrong!

And so, through life, a poor wretch tries
To do what he thinks is right,
To place his funds so that when he dies
His family'll be sitting tight;
To raise the young with the best in mind,
And sometimes it works like a song,
But often he finds like the man in the blind,
Whatever you do is wrong!

Still, I think that the God who sits in His sky,
And watches each man in his blind,
When it comes time for the hunter to die,
Surely, He'll keep in mind
That each tried to do what it seemed he ought,
And He'll put us where we belong;
For He'll understand the fellow that thought
Whatever he did was wrong!