Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool,
Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool,
Where bushes over the water hung,
And grasses nodded and rushes swung—
Just where the brook flowed out of the bog—
There lived a gouty and mean old Frog,
Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak,
And do just nothing but croak and croak.

'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know,
What is the trouble down there below?
Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?"
The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot!
Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime,
For me to look at the livelong time.
'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke,
And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

"But you're looking down!" the Blackbird said.
"Look at the blossoms overhead;
Look at the lovely summer skies;
Look at the bees and butterflies—
Look up, old fellow! Why, bless your soul,
You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!"
But still, with his gurgling sob and choke,
The Frog continued to croak and croak.

And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near,
Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here:
Don't shed your tears over him, for he
Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be!
He's one of the kind who won't be glad;
It makes him happy to think he's sad.
I'll tell you something—and it's no joke—
Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"