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125

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,

(AN AGRICULTURIST.)

Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands,And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side,Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.
Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true;Whose life combines the best of high and low,The toiling many and the resting few;
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