And blest his bees, and in their praise
He chanted forth these jocund lays.
Fly forth, dear Bees, 'tis morn, fly forth
To South, to North, to West, to East;
And cull from every fragrant flower
A honied feast.
Fly Home, dear Bees, 'tis Eve, fly home!
From North, from South, from East, from West;
Store in your cells your luscious spoil,
And sweetly rest.
The air is clear the day is warm,
John Dull sits watching for a swarm;
What's this? he thought; while I've been talking
My bees are all prepared for walking,
Staves in their hands, and on his back
Each carries his provision pack.