Iii

You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding, Improvident, who of the summer make One long green meal-time, and for winter take No care, aye singing or just merely feeding! Happy-go-lucky vagabond,--though frost Shall pierce, ere long, your coat of green or brown, And pinch your body,--let no song be lost, But as you lived, into your grave go down-- Like some small poet with his little rhyme, Forgotten of all time.