Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong;
How calmly did he seem to creep along!
While I for conquest strove with eager pain,
And labour'd, sweated, panted--all in vain!
This awkward tool--yet no defect I see--
The ground uneven--some cause must there be.
He the best mower? let it not be known;
No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own.
Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.--
I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence.