I DON’T believe in worry, and it’s foolish to despair,
And dreading what may happen never lightens any care;
I believe in facing trouble, without fretting o’er the cost,
But it’s altogether different when your little one is lost.
Oh, it’s altogether different when you think she’s gone astray,
When she’s toddled from the doorway, and you cannot tell which way;
When you call and get no answer, and you call and call again
You are game, but still you worry—for it’s mighty different then.
Then the sweat comes on your forehead, and your nerves begin to dance,
And the only thing you think of is some dreadful circumstance.
You never stop to reason, and you play no hero’s part,
For terror—trembling terror—is a lodger in your heart.
You could face financial ruin without parting with your grin,
You could smile to see another take the prize you hoped to win,
But you never cease to worry till you find your child again
In the cupboard where she’s hiding—for it’s mighty different then.
