YE lovers of nature attend unto me,
I'll sing you a ditty concerning the Bee;
The noblest of insects for industry,
And well worth a song I am sure is the Bee.

When Sol darts his beams over meadow and moor,
The Bee, ever active, exploreth each flower,
Returns home with honey to lay up in store,
To serve him when winter around him doth roar.

And when the rude storm overshadows the sky,
And abroad to the flowers he no longer can fly:
Still, seeking employment, he works in the hive,
In building, or keeping the young ones alive.

Ye Sovereigns of Europe, in Congress that sit,
This poor little insect would learn you some wit:
Here, rul'd without soldiers, the masses you see;
O, learn then to govern as governs the Bee.