As that afforded by a well-fill'd pail.
Before another century has fled,
Water, thy virtues none will dare deny;
Posterity will humbly bare its head,
When thou in rain descendest from the sky.
The workman, when his daily labour's done,
Eager alike for luxury and rest,
Will to his water-butt impatient run,
The spigot turn—lie under—and be blest!
No longer to the couch will idlers fly,