_Frodsham_, _Cheshire_, _September_, 1872.
Hail Muse etc.! Bring me Peggy, My antient steed, now somewhat leggy; Not him who on Parnassus green Erst fed, and drank of Hippocrene; But such, as to supply the trade, At Nuremburg by scores are made.-- I mount him, and will now indite A Bee-book for my own delight, I'll sing of Johnny Dull: his pig, Made by his bees exceeding big; And of his daughter fair Christine, Of her queer lover Dicky Dean, And of his nephew rogue Eugene-- Of honey-robbers I will tell, And bears, and bull-frogs, ghosts as well-- All which my readers may discover Who con this true tale ten times over-- Or make ten other Bee Friends buy it; For three and six I can supply it.
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.