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James Whitcomb Riley - Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer
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The summer winds is sniffin` round the bloomin`
     locus` trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin` honey, above board and on the
      sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin` and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail `pears to jest spit on his
      wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin`-up his forelegs fer biz,
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--
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not
      a-carin` how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the
      wing--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it`s when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She`s as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket`s nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun`s a-shinin`
      right,
Seems to kindo`-sorto` sharpen up a feller`s appetite!

They`s been a heap o` rain, but the sun`s out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener
      still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don`t think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn`s drownded
      out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc`t more at the `leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and
      dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck`s health a-failin`?--Does he walk, er does
        he run?
Don`t the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they`ve
        allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster`s lungs er
        voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin` when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev`ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me
      and you.
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