Classic Poem

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. —
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.

Men ginerly, to all intents —
Although they're apt to grumble some —
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come —
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.

With some , of course, it's different —
I've saw young men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball; —
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly wanted it,
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!

In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men —
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then. —
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And want it — out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!

It aggervates the farmers, too —
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm — and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.

These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round —
And back'ard crops! — and wind and rain! —
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again! —
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. —
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.