University of Virginia Library

FIRST PART.

We wander through the summer bowers
To many a little town of flowers,
All ancient freeholds of our own,
And to us for long ages known.
When you think we're but murmuring,
'Tis of these places that we sing.
Unto some brother bee I say—
“Pray, whither are you going to-day?”
Then unto me he will reply—
“I to the Village of Roses fly.
Then to the Thorpe of May I go,
Near the grange where woodbines blow,
To listen to the milkmaid's song,
Timed to the stream that rolls along,
And o'er the golden pebbles sings
There I join chorus with my wings.”
Ah! could you but know all I see,
You'd say how happy is a bee.
Up with the lark, out with the sun,
For at the dawn our work's begun.
Nor till the sun sinks in the west,
Do we from our sweet labour rest;
Merry companions every one,
And more industrious there are none.
The dragon-fly turns his large eye,
And shakes his wings as I pass by,
With a “How do, dear brother bee?
Cowslips are on yon upland lea,
A pleasant spot you will it find;
I've left my little ones behind.”
The great stag-beetle, when we meet,
Bows low his head and scrapes his feet;
No gentleman in all the land
Can more politely shake your hand.
The butterfly “hopes I am well,”
As she swings on some wild-flower bell.
The armëd gnats aside will fly,
Nor close their ranks till I've passed by.
The wasp, who knows I too can sting,
Leaves me a wide space for each wing,
And looks at me as if afraid—
He knows mine is an honest trade;
For out of every flower you see
I make my sweet confection'ry.
And we had sugar of our own,
Ages before its name was known.
Those early homes 'neath forest trees
Were ever “musical with bees.”
King Vortigern would sit for hours,
And watch us working at the flowers;
And when Rowena saw us feed
She'd think of brewing her next mead.
Old Britons without clothes or money
Were happy if they'd store of honey.
The cottager with rows of hives
Our habits copies and he thrives.
In the academies of old
Our names were written up in gold;
In blazing letters you might see,
“Be thou industrious like the bee.”
Even their knowledge bearded sages
Did learn from us in early ages;
'Tis written in their lasting pages.

SECOND PART.

Oft we go forth with merry march
To towns which red-streaked woodbines arch;
Far into the flower-clad woods
To war amongst the velvet buds,
Which back with trumpet-sound we bring,
And then like cheerful masons sing
While building golden roofs—to store
The treasures we from summer bore.
And when we work, we work indeed.
Our labourers leave not off to feed,
But lower the trunk and bend the head,
And in a second they are fed,
And busy at their combs again;
For the nurses that we train
Take care the workmen do not lag,
But each comes with her honey-bag,
So that they have no need to stop,
Opens it, and gives each a drop;
The next bee sees his turn has come,
Puts out his trunk and he gets some;
Quick to the next as speedy gone,
And feeds them all, nor misses one.
But the share is very small
Of those who will not work at all.
Instead of honey they get kicked,
Like idle boys who 're often licked.
When beaten still, to work they go,
Whether they it like or no,
And if they grumble they get more—
We whack 'em till their bones are sore.
Nurses see to the baby bees,
Give them their breakfasts and their teas;
For the little bees in bed
Are helpless all and must be fed.
This done, they smooth a comb or two,
When they've nothing else to do;
A comb the workers have left rough,
And thus we find them work enough.
Worst is, our owners take our store
Just at the time we can't make more;
Like the old Israelites, you know,
Who couldn't make bricks without straw,
Nor we make honey without flowers.
In autumn we may search for hours,
And in neither bud nor bell
Find one drop to enrich our cell.
Round dahlia and chrysanthemum
We may for a long hour hum;
But neither can for love nor money
Obtain a single drop of honey.

THIRD PART.

We have great trouble with our queens—
Bless you, you never saw such scenes.
The first that from her cell gets out
Will go and knock the rest about,
Ill use them, bite them, nor refrain,
'Till every other queen she's slain.
But although she wears the crown,
We've force enough to keep her down.
To do this, we're compelled to fight her,
Hold fast her wings, scratch her, bite her;
Then she sulks and will not eat,
Though we get round her and entreat,
Give her a word or two in season,
Beg she will hear a little reason.
“The other queens are in their cells,”
We tell her, “and no one rebels.
You'd better far appoint a day
And take some thousand bees away.
It is high time that you did swarm,
The hive's become so very warm,
And so thick and close we lie,
There'll be no moving by-and-by.
Even now we tread on one another,
And the baby-bees we smother,
Although we take our golden belt in;
Even the very wax is melting,
And the honey runs like water.
Now be a real royal daughter,
As the mother was that bore you.
You know well she swarmed before you,
Led the way to empty hives,
And by doing so saved our lives.
Go, seek some other summer bowers,
Where there are lanes and miles of flowers;
We'll send you forth in regal state,
So, madam, you must emigrate,
And sooner you are off the better.”
She raves and goes on, and we let her,
For well we know words do no harm,
Make up our minds that she shall swarm.
She knowing this at last consents.
Thousands beside will pitch their tents
With her wherever she may go—
For ages this has been bee law.
We send her off in grand array,
With trumpeters to sound the way,
Heralds, whose numbers are untold,
And pursuivants in belted gold.
Thousands and thousands will attend her,
To swell her train, and show her splendour.