( " Oh, vous dont le travail est joie. " )

O ye whose labour is bliss alway,
Blithe-winged ones who have for prey
But odorous breaths of azure skies,
Who, ere December come, far flee,
Sweet thieves of sweetest blooms, O ye
Who bear to men the honey prize,

Chaste sippers of the morning dew,
Who visit 'neath noon's amorous blue
The lily glowing like a star, —
Fond sisters of May's flowerets bright,
Bees, blithesome daughters of the light,
From that foul mantle flit afar!

Winged warriors, rush upon that man!
O busy toilers, noble clan,
For duty and virtue arduous,
With golden wings, keen darts of flame,
Swarm round that dull foul thing of shame,
And hiss: — " For what hast taken us?

" Accurst! We are the honey-bees!
Our hives the pride of cottages,
From homeliest flowers our sweetest sips!
Though oft, what time warm June discloses
For love of us his loveliest roses,
We're fain to alight on Plato's lips!
" What's born of mire to mire's inclined.

Go, in his lair Tiberius find,
Charles neuf his balcony upon.
Go, go, Hymettus' bees scarce grace
Your purple, there behoves you place
The black foul swarm of Montfaucon! "

And all together sting him there, —
O tiny warriors of the air
Sting blind this traitor soulless, base;
Upon him swarm from far and near,
And, since the men of France have fear,
Let bees of France the monster chase!