Grass-plugged, with water for the grinder full, A flask is hung upon his hip; The stone within its wooden trough is cool, Free all the day to sip and sip; But man is gasping in the fiery sun, That makes his very marrow melt and run.
Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst: the bark, Tender and juicy, of the bough. Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it. Mark The narrow passage welling now; The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside, Who drinkest of the flood, the honeyed tide.
Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive, Neighbours and wives, or wanderers vile; They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile; Beauty, beware! the wallet-snatcher's face, Humble at first, grows insolent apace.
They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take; Soon discontent, their heads they toss; They crave for all, and all will have. They rake Their claws thy folded wings across; Thy back a mountain, up and down each goes; They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.
This way and that they pull. Impatient thou: Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous taste O'er the assembly sprinklest. Leave the bough And fly the rascals thus disgraced, Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure Now lick their honey'd lips, and feed at leisure.
See these Bohemians without labour fed! The ant the worst of all the crew-- Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head, All of them sharpers thro' and thro', Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace-- None more than she was eager for thy place,
More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread, Or nose to pinch, and then to run Under the shade thine ample belly spread; Or climb thy leg for ladder; sun Herself audacious on thy wings, and go Most insolently o'er thee to and fro.
Now comes a tale that no one should believe. In other times, the ancients say, The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve. Thou didst in secret see one day The ant below the ground her treasure store away.
The wealthy ant was drying in the sun Her corn the dew had wet by night, Ere storing it again; and one by one She filled her sacks as it dried aright. Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,
Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise Blows me this way and that to-day. I die of hunger. Of your riches please Fill me my bag, and I'll repay, When summer and its melons come this way.