It ain’t no use to grumble and complain;
    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 giner’ly, to all intents—­
    Although they’re ap’ to grumble some—­
  Puts most their 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 enough to learn
      They’re not the boss of the concern.

  With some, of course, it’s different—­
    I’ve seed young men that knowed it all,
  And didn’t like the way things went
    On this terrestial 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 existence, dry and wet
    Will overtake the best of men—­
  Some little skift o’ clouds’ll shet
    The sun off now and then;
      But maybe, while you’re wondern’ who
      You’ve fool-like lent your umbrell’ to,
      And want it—­out’ll pop the sun,
      And you’ll be glad you ain’t got none!

  It aggervates the farmers, too—­
    They’s too much wet, er too much sun,
  Er work, er waiting round to do
    Before the plowin’’s done;
      And maybe, 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 wallered down
    May elbow up again! 
      They ain’t no sense, as I kin see,
      In mortals, sich as you and me,
      A-faultin’ Nature’s wise intents,
      And lockin’ horns with Providence!

  It ain’t no use to grumble and complain;
    It’s jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: 
  When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
        W’y, rain’s my choice.

WHERE SHALL WE LAND.

  “Where shall we land you, sweet?”—­Swinburne.

  All listlessly we float
  Out seaward in the boat
    That beareth Love. 
  Our sails of purest snow
  Bend to the blue below
    And to the blue above. 
      Where shall we land?

  We drift upon a tide
  Shoreless on every side,
    Save where the eye
  Of Fancy sweeps far lands
  Shelved slopingly with sands
    Of gold and porphyry. 
      Where shall we land?

  The fairy isles we see,
  Loom up so mistily—­
    So vaguely fair,
  We do not care to break
  Fresh bubbles in our wake
    To bend our course for there. 
      Where shall we land?

  The warm winds of the deep
  Have lulled our sails to sleep,
    And so we glide
  Careless of wave or wind,
  Or change of any kind,
    Or turn of any tide. 
      Where shall we land?