Wet-Weather Talk

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, 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.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

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James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
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And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
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And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow -
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The Rain.

I.

The rain! the rain! the rain!
    It gushed from the skies and streamed
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought
    How pitiful it seemed!
And he turned his face away,
    And stared at the wall again,
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out.
    O the rain! the rain! the rain!



II.

The rain! the rain! the rain!
    And the broad stream brimmed the shores;
And ever the river crept over the reeds
    And the roots of the sycamores:
A corpse swirled by in a drift
    Where the boat had snapt its chain -
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved.
    O the rain! the rain! the rain!



III.

The rain! the rain! the rain! -
    Pouring, with never a pause,
Over the fields and the...

James Whitcomb Riley

Says He

"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
    "Whatever the weather may be
It's plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say,--
Supposin' to-day was the winterest day,
Wud the weather be changing because ye cried,
Or the snow be grass were ye crucified?
The best is to make your own summer," says he,
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
    "Whatever the weather may be!

"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
    "Whatever the weather may be,
It's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear,
That's a-makin' the sun shine everywhere;
An' the world of gloom is a world of glee,
Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree,
An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he,
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
    "Whatever the weather may be!
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James Whitcomb Riley

Rain For The Farmer.

If gently falls the small, soft, lazy rain,
To indoor industries he shrewdly steals;
And in the barn from some neglected grain
The choking chaff the clattering fanner reels;
Or in the shed the sapling ash he peels
For handles for the fork with humor blithe,
Or haply lards the tumbril's heavy wheels,
Or of the harness oils the leather lithe,
Or turns the tuneless stone and grinds the gleaming scythe.

But now the sky is black; and now the Storm
Prepares his legions for the coming fray,
While murmurs low prelude the dread alarm,
As prayed the hosts, - like robèd monks who pray
Mid slumb'rous incense in a cloister gray, -
Till from yon cloud the fiery signal given
Enrages all their terrible array.
Jove's flaming car is o'er Olympus driven,
And thunders ...

W. M. MacKeracher

Wind And Rain

The rain came down on Boston Town,
    And the people said, "Oh, dear!
It's early yet for our annual wet, -
    'Twas dry this time last year."

In heavy suits and rubber boots
    They went to the weather man,
And said, "Dear friend, do you intend
    To change your present plan?"

In tones of scorn, he said, "Begone!
    I've ordered a week of rain.
Away! disperse! or I'll do worse,
    And order a hurricane!"

They sneered, "Oh, oh!" and they laughed, "Ho, ho!"
    And they said, "You surely jest.
Your threats are vain, for a hurricane
    Is the thing that we like best.

"Our throats are tinned, and a sharp east wind
    We really couldn't do without;
But we complain of too much rain,
    And we think we'd like a drought....

Arthur Macy

As My Uncle Used To Say.

    I've thought a power on men and things,
        As my uncle ust to say, -
    And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!
        W'y, they ain't no use to pray!
    Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set
    A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet,
    And tears won't bring it, w'y, you try sweat,
        As my uncle ust to say.

    They's some don't know their A, B, Cs,
        As my uncle ust to say,
    And yit don't waste no candle-grease,
        Ner whistle their lives away!
    But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme
    No ringin' song fer to last all time,
    They can blaze the way fer the march sublime,
        As my uncle ust to say.

    Whoever's Foreman of all things here,
        As my uncle ust to say,

James Whitcomb Riley