Save too this suppliant at thy door,
O save my spreading Sycamore!
It gave my window breezes sweet,
And shelter when the tempest beat;
When wild bees humm’d its boughs among,
Or cooing stock-dove watch’d her young,
Oft have I sat beneath its shade,
And bless’d my children, as they play’d.
Ah! let not Taste, with upstart pride,
This old domestic thrust aside;