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 could n't do without;
But we complain of too much rain,
And we think we'd like a drought.”
So the weather man took a palm-leaf fan
And he waved it up on high,
And he swept away the clouds so gray,
And the sun shone out in the sky.
And the sun shines down on Boston Town,
And the weather still is clear;
And they set their clocks by the equinox,
And never the east wind fear.