The Rain


Come, rain, come,

That the water may run,

That the meadow grass may grow;

That the fruit and grain

O'er hill and plain,

May greet us as we go.



Come, rain, come,

That the water may run,

That the mill may make our meal;--

'Twill grind our wheat,

And corn so sweet,

When it turns the old mill-wheel.



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