Tile Drains by James McIntyre — Read

'Tis sad to see the richest land, / Barren where water it doth stand;

You seek for crop but all in vain, / For land requires the under drain.

But you cause mother earth to smile, / When ventilated by the tile;

Before, she felt sour and old, / Drains warm her heart and expel cold.

Porous now are all her veins, / From filtration of the drains, / And each tiny sparkling rill, / Sends through her heart a pleasing thrill.

Before, it was cold and crusty, / And it was both sour and musty;

But now it doth beat high with hopes, / Rejoicing in her mighty crops.

Tile must be laid straight and level, / But of course with a slight bevel;

Sloping towards ditch or creek, / Where way to ocean it doth seek.

'Tis true that fiercer rages floods, / Since country it was stripp'd of woods, / And rivers they do broader spread, / With numerous tile drains quicker fed.