Tile Drains

’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.