With Hills to ward off every Storm,
Where Water salt runs trickling down,
And Tendrils lie o'er all the Ground,
Such as the Tree itself shoots forth,
And better if't be tow'rds the North;
When such a Piece of Ground you see,
If in the midst a Pit there be,
There plant it deep unto the Root,
And never fear——you'll soon have Fruit.
Tho' let young Botanists beware