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 mayby 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, sech 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’ my choice.