Volume 159 — NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
Reading edition
The Bee.
I never, never could admit The virtues of the bee; I thought she seemed a dreadful prig When I was small, and now I'm big I see she is a hypocrite, And so, of course, are we. It's true she rushes to and fro With business promptitude, But what about the busy ant? Oh, let us clear our minds of cant— Why is it that we love her so? She manufactures food. But not for us. If it were shown She organised the feast For us to eat, one might agree About her virtue; but, you see, She does it for herself alone, The greedy little beast! So grasping is the little dear That every now and then She readjusts the ration scales By simply murdering the males, With many a base, malicious jeer At "idle gentlemen." Nor does a man of us cry "Shame!" Though every man would own If there is one high hope for which He labours on at fever-pitch It is not honour, wealth or fame— He wants to be a drone. Why is it, then, we don't abhor This horrid little prude? Why don't we cast the foullest slur On such a Prussian character? Because, as I remarked before, She manufactures food. The world is full of beasts, my son, And I know two or three That any parent might employ To be a model for their boy, But take my word, we've overdone The insufferable bee.
A. P. H.
THE NEW POOR.
I remember the time— —when I thought— —I never should ride in a bus—
—and now— —I am almost certain—
—I never shall.
