The Bee and the Butterfly.
[Published by permission of W. S. Belcher, Esq., Birmingham, the owner of the copyright, and from whom the Music may be obtained.]
A Bee and a butterfly, settled one day,
By chance on a rosebud together,
The one was at work, and the other at play,
'Twas morning, and bright sunny weather.
"How do?" said the butterfly, "may I inquire
Why bees all seem destined to labour?"
"We think of our home, when dark winter shall come,"
Replied his industrious neighbour.
"O fiddle-de-dee, leave off work, come with me,
And spend a gay life mid the flowers,
There is summer and spring," said the gay thoughtless thing,
"To say nothing of autumn's glad hours."
But the bee shook his head, and with honey he fled
To those whom he loved, while his friend
Continued his flight, sipping sweets left and right,
Little thinking how soon it would end.
But a few months gone by, when this proud butterfly
Was met by the bee in distress—
His coat not so gay, as when first seen in May,
And his pride and his consequence less.
The sunshine was gone, of bright flowers there were none,
And passed were both autumn and spring,
But unlike the poor bee—no provision had he,
So he died a poor heart-broken thing.
