[1] The Farmer'S Patient Care And Toil Are Oftener Wanting Than The Soil. A Wealthy Ploughman Drawing Near His End, Call'D In His Sons Apart From Every Friend, And Said, 'When Of Your Sire Bereft, The Heritage Our Fathers Left Guard Well, Nor Sell A Single Field. A Treasure In It Is Conceal'D: The Place, Precisely, I Don't Know, But Industry Will Serve To Show. The Harvest Past, Time'S Forelock Take, And Search With Plough, And Spade, And Rake; Turn Over Every Inch Of Sod, Nor Leave Unsearch'D A Single Clod.' The Father Died. The Sons - And Not In Vain - Turn'D O'Er The Soil, And O'Er Again; That Year Their Acres Bore More Grain Than E'Er Before. Though Hidden Money Found They None, Yet Had Their Father Wisely Done, To Show By Such A Measure, That Toil Itself Is Treasure.