Fytte X. The Queen Bee's Fete.

The night is warm, and many a nose Upturned, is snoring in repose; Whilst every tree and every flower Rejoices in that witching hour. And o'er John Dull his garden beds, The moon her gentle influence sheds.

'Tis May the first, the Queen bee's fête! And she, in all her regal state, Beneath her fairy hall of roses With her beloved drone reposes.

She nods a sign; the bombardier Awakes the echoes far and near.

Whilst tinkle, tinkle, clang! clang! bang! The Court musicians' strain out-rang. The fly he blows the shrill trompette, The gnat the softer clarionette; The grasshopper, a fiddler he— The drummer is the bumble bee.—

The Willow-beetle, such a swell, With young Sabina waltzes well;

Liz too and Kitty have their swains, Who one and all are taking pains To make themselves agreeable, Each to his own peculiar belle.

The Stag-Beetle, that beau precise, Regales his partner with an ice.

The Moon, upon the Apple Tree, Surveys, well pleased, the revelry.

Two cockchafers soon quit the dance; They cannot bear the piercing glance Of their fair partners—see them set Within a private cabinet. They smoke, they sing, they drink until Their little polished paunch they fill.

Their homes they cannot find—alas! They tumble backward on the grass. "To whit" "To whoo" policeman Owl, The wisest of all feathered fowl, Hoots out; "why here's a precious go," "Drunk and incapable, ho! ho!"

"So come along, I know you well;"— He said, and drove them to his cell. Were they discharged? No, never more, That cell it was an abattoir. The owl supped on the elder Brother, And for his breakfast ate the other. So you, who think a dance divine, Mind—never take excess of wine.

The Evening star went flicker—flick— Over the bedroom candlestick; And round its silver radiance shed To light the sleepy moon to bed.

I've done—I doff my riding gear, And order Pegasus—HIS BEER.