The Bees

The Sun throws his ray on the lake, The vessels are scudding along; Before half the city's awake, The air is all action and song!

The Bees haste away to the moors, And eager their task to complete, Extract from the bells of the flowers, Their delicate essences sweet.

All cheerful they hurry along, Their storehouse of food to increase, Till Death puts an end to their song, The citizen's table to grace.

Though few can their weapons withstand, Or few can their forces defeat, Yet Death with a torch at command, Soon makes the wing'd armies retreat.

At once their anxiety droops, In the grave they lie silent and still, While strangers are draining the cup, They made such exertions to fill.

O may I be bold as the Bee, In work of a similar cast, So faithful, industrious, and free, And labour, and sing to the last!

CAUTION FROM LIMBER HILL.

(Occasioned by a fall during a frost.)

'Twas a bit gone December, As I well remember, I met with a rubber, and got some advice; What harbour to rest in, What Friend to put trust in, And how we may walk with slape shoes upon ice!

In coming down Limber, Among the young timber, My foot slipt, and falling, it was a take in, The night being darkish, And we a bit larkish, Instead of a broom bush, I grasped a whin!

When my fingers were bleeding, And pain was succeeding, It set me a thinking,--of that you'll not doubt; And but for the blunder, Which lessen'd the wonder, I else had been punish'd enough to sing out!

My views being muddy, I quickly did study, What things upon earth to compare with this whin; After walking around 'em, I very soon found 'em To be a false friend, or the pleasures of sin!

A true Friend is precious, His favour's delicious, He'll give you a lift, when he sees you break down; In conflicts distressing, You'll find him a blessing, He'll mark your oppressions, and call them his own!

But a false Friend will vary, And vow quite contrary, His heart to your grief will be hard as a stone; In sorrow or sickness, He'll pity your weakness, But only plant under your pillow a thorn!

While your money is chinking, He'll answer you winking, He'll "Master," and "Sir" you, and come at your call; But give him a pincher, You'll find him a flincher, Instead of a lift, he will fling you a fall!

So sin is deceiving, Bewitching, bereaving; 'Twill pierce through the heart, and invite you to sing; 'Twill put on fair faces, To woo your embraces, But after you've grasp'd it, there follows a sting!