The old black hen who heard him didn’t grumble nor complain,
She had gone through lots of dry spells, she had lived through floods of rain,
So she flew upon the grindstone, and she gave her claws a whet,
As she said, “I’ve never seen the time that there weren’t worms to get.”

She picked a new and un-dug spot; the earth was hard and firm.
The little rooster jeered, “New ground! That’s no place for a worm.”
The old black hen just spread her feet, and she dug both fast and free,
“I must go to the worms,” she said, “the worms won’t come to me.”

The rooster vainly spent his day, through habit, by the ways.
Where fat round worms had passed in squads back in the rainy days.
When nightfall found him supper-less, he growled in accents rough,
“I’m hungry as a fowl can be. Conditions sure are tough.”

He turned then to the old black hen and said, “It’s worse with you.
For you’re not only hungry, but you must be tired too.
I rested while I watched for worms, so I feel fairly pert;
But how are you? Without worms too? And after all that work?”

The old black hen hopped to her perch and drooped her eyes to sleep,
And murmured in a drowsy tone, “Young man, hear this and weep:
I’m full of worms and happy, for I’ve dined both long and well
The worms are there as always—-but I had to dig like hell”

Oh, here and there red roosters still, are holding sales positions,
They cannot do much business now because of poor conditions,
But soon as things get right again, they’ll sell a hundred firms–
Meanwhile the old black hens are out and gobbling up the worms!