Birds, Bees and Blossoms :: :: University of Virginia Library

A very old grave-digger am I,
Though I use neither pick nor spade,
And for many thousands of years
I've followed the grave-digging trade,
And a great many graves I've made.

Though I but use my body and feet,
A neater grave you never saw
Than the one I scoop in the earth.
I'll tell you how to work I go,
When I bury a mole or so.

A mole is forty times my size—
To me he seems a mountain high.
First I go and measure the ground,
Then a circle by-and-by
I make, and let him in it lie.

And when I've drawn my trench all round
I then sometimes climb up his side,
And say, “You'll take a good sized grave;
But though you are long, high, and wide,
And a big one for me to hide,

I'll have you deep down in the earth,
And buried decent and out of sight,
Under three inches of black mould,
Long before to-morrow night;
And do my work without a light.”

Beneath him then a hole I make,
I go to work and scratch away,
Kick out the earth both right and left,
And never stop to rest or play,
But dig and dig without delay.

I feel him pressing on my back,
And then I know he's sinking lower;
His own weight helps to bring him down,
I throw the earth out hour by hour;
The worms stand wondering at my power.

See what a lofty bank I've raised!
He lies within a spacious mound.
Upon his back I climb again,
And press him deeper in the ground—
With earth he is already bound.

Into his grave I go once more,
And underneath him quickly pop.

If there's a stone, I sink a well,
And into it the stone I drop—
No obstacle my course can stop.

I feel him heavier on my back,
Deeper and deeper down I go;
I ask him not how he likes that,
For he must follow, whether or no—
I pull his nose, I pull his toe.

And so I work on at my trade:
I neither rest nor do I sleep
Until he lies beneath the earth
Which I on his huge body heap,
And bury him three inches deep.

For I am the great undertaker,
And bury all such like small game,
No matter whether bird or mouse,
For I just serve them all the same;—
Burying Beetle is my name.

And when they are safe under ground,
My eggs I in their bodies lay;
And when my young ones come to life,
Food they find round them every way—
Eat what they like, and nought to pay.

Like you I have my troubles, too;
For oft a cat, or bird of prey,
Will come and carry off my prize
When through my work I've got half way—
And not a word I dare to say.