Читать книгу Buzz a Buzz: or, The Bees - Вильгельм Буш, Busch Wilhelm, Wilhelm Busch - Страница 3

All hail! thou lovely month of May,

With parti-coloured flowers gay!

And hail to you, my darling Bees;

Much wealth you gain on days like these.

From morn to eve a humming sound

About the bee-house circles round.

The sentinels, in armour bright,

Keep watch and ward throughout the night;

And drive away, constrained by oath,

The mice, and toads, and Death's head moth.

At early dawn 'tis quite a treat

To see them work, they are so neat;

Some clean their house with brooms and mops,

And others empty out the slops.

The architects, by rule and line,

Their future cells with skill define;

The ever toiling workers these —

Meanwhile the Queen, she takes her ease;

Sole mother of the winged nation,

Her only work is propagation.

The egg she lays; the nurses hatch

That egg, and in the cradle watch.

The babe to swaddle, and prepare

The pap-boat, is their constant care.

All day, in regal state, the Queen

Encircled by her court is seen;

Their backs they never rudely turn:

Good manners they by instinct learn.

And when night comes she goes to bed,

And on the pillow lays her head;

Whilst by her side her faithful drone

Profoundly snores, for they are one.

They send for letters ere they rise;

For just at ten they ope their eyes.

The post office is in a flower,

Which opens at a certain hour,

Miss Crocus keeps it, fresh and fair;

The tresses of her flowing hair

They glitter like the purest gold;

And by her saffron cakes are sold.

Near is the pothouse where both grog

Is served to Bumble-Bees, and prog;

And when the Bumble-Bees get groggy,

Their intellect, like men's, is foggy.

On rose leaves they their letters write,

Here's one they either wrote or might.

"Great Queen, we hope you'll swarm to day";

"For 'is a lovely first of May."

The messenger this letter takes,

And eke a store of saffron cakes.

The Drones they neither work, nor can

Do aught but sleep on a divan;

And smoke their pipes through all the day;

Chibouks these love, and those a clay.

Such is their life – who would not be

A happy little worker Bee;

A Queen's too high for me, – a Drone,

Such laziness I let alone.