Two gay young frogs from inland bogs,
Had spent their night in drinking.
As morning broke and they awoke,
While still their eyes were blinking,
A farmer's pall came to the swale,
And caught them quick as winking.
'Ere they could gather scattered senses,
Or breathe a prayer for past offenses,
That granger grand, that guiltless man,
Had dumped them in the milkman's can.
They quickly find their breath will stop
Unless they swim upon the top.
They swim for life, they kick and swim
Until their weary eyes grow dim.
Their muscles ache, their breath grows short,
And gasping, speaks one weary sport,
"Say, old dear, I've had enough of life, no more
I'll try it. Sweet milk is not my diet."
"Tut tut, my lad," the other cries,
A frog's not dead until he dies.
Let's keep on kicking, that's my plan.
We yet may see outside this can."
"No use, no use," faint heart replies.,
Turns up his toes and gently dies.
Now the brave frog, undaunted still,
Kept kicking with a right good will,
Until with joy too great to utter
He found he's churned a pound of butter.
And climbing upon this hunk of grease,
He floated to town with greatest ease.
Now the moral to the story is this:
When in your Christian life you find
You're weary of the toilsome grind,
Don't get discouraged and go down,
But struggle on, no murmur utter,
A few more kicks may bring the butter.