Chapter 3 No.3

Fine weather for the Cigale! God, what heat!

Half drunken with her joy, she feasts

In a hail of fire. Pays for the harvest meet;

A golden sea the reaper breasts,

Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long,

For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.

A blessed time for thee, little Cigale.

Thy little cymbals shake and sound,

Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall!

Man meanwhile swings his scythe around;

Continually back and forth it veers,

Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.

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.