- (Ere Phosphor1 his pale circlet yet withdraws,
- What time grey dawn stands tip-toe on the hill,)
-
O’er the rich Cane-grove: Muse, their labour sing. [110]
- SOME bending, of their sapless burden ease
- The yellow jointed canes,2 (whose height exceeds
- A mounted trooper, and whose clammy round
- Measures two inches full;) and near the root
- Lop the stem off, which quivers in their hand [115]
- With fond impatience: soon it’s branchy spires,
- (Food to thy cattle) it resigns; and soon
- It’s tender prickly tops, with eyes3 thick set,
- To load with future crops thy long-hoed land.
- These with their green, their pliant branches bound, [120]
- (For not a part of this amazing plant,
- But serves some useful purpose) charge the young:
- Not laziness declines this easy toil;
- Even lameness from it’s leafy pallet crawls,
- To join the favoured gang. What of the Cane [125]
- Remains, and much the largest part remains,
- Cut into junks a yard in length, and tied
- In small light bundles; load the broad-wheel’d wane,
- The mules crook-harnest, and the sturdier crew,