TO AN ANT.
Reading edition
Run here, little ant, For the pretty bird can’t. I want you to come, And live at my home; I know you will stay, And help me to play. Stop making that hill, Little ant, and be still; Come creep to my feet, Here is sugar to eat. Say are you not weary, My poor little deary, With bearing that load, Across the wide road? Leave your hill now, to me, And then you shall see, That by filling my hand, I can pile up the sand, And save you the pains, Of bringing these grains.