class="c9">Espeloufi de touto meno,
Costo-en-long qu'à toun pous lou soulcias ameno,
N'an pas soun testardige à te faire enana.

Pèr l'esquicha l'artèu, te coutiga lou mourre,
Te pessuga lou nas, pèr courre
A l'oumbro du toun ventre, osco! degun la vau.
Lou marrit-pèu prend pèr escalo
Uno patto e te monto, ardido, sus lis alo,
E s'espasso, insoulènto, e vai d'amont, d'avau.


II.

Aro veici qu'es pas de crèire.
Ancian tèms, nous dison li rèire,
Un jour d'ivèr; la fam te prenguè. Lou front bas
E d'escoundoun anères vèire,
Dins si grand magasin, la fournigo, eilàbas.

L'endrudido au soulèu secavo,
Avans de lis escoundre en cavo,
Si blad qu'aviè mousi l'eigagno de la niue.
Quand èron lest lis ensacavo.
Tu survènes alor, emé de plour is iue.

Iè disés: "Fai bèn fre; l'aurasso
D'un caire à l'autre me tirasso
Avanido de fam. A toun riche mouloun
Leisso-me prène pèr ma biasso.
Te lou rendrai segur au bèu tèms di meloun.

"Presto-me un pan de gran." Mai, bouto,
Se cresès que l'autro t'escouto,
T'enganes. Di gros sa, rèn de rèn sara tièu.
"Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto;
Crebo de fam l'ivèr, tu que cantes l'estièu."

Ansin charro la fablo antico
Pèr nous counséia la pratico
Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun
De si bourso.—Que la coulico
Rousiguè la tripaio en aqueli coudoun!

Me fai susa, lou fabulisto,
Quand dis que l'ivèr vas en quisto
De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai.
De blad! Que n'en fariès, ma fisto!
As ta fon melicouso e demandes rèn mai.

Que t'enchau l'ivèr! Ta famiho
A la sousto en terro soumiho,
Et tu dormes la som que n'a ges de revèi;
Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho.
Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou véi,

De tu magro péu dessecado
La marriasso fai becado;
Te curo lou perus, te chapouto à moucèu,
T'encafourno pèr car-salado,
Requisto prouvisioun, l'ivèr, en tèms de neu.

III.

Vaqui l'istori veritablo
Bèn liuen dôu conte de la fablo.
Que n'en pensas, canèu de sort!
—O rammaissaire de dardeno
Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno
Que gouvernas lou mounde emé lou coffre-fort,

Fasès courre lou bru, canaio,
Que l'artisto jamai travaio
E dèu pati, lou bedigas.
Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco
La Cigalo a cava la rusco,
Raubas soun bèure, e pièi, morto, la rousigas.

So speaks my friend in the expressive Provençal idiom, rehabilitating the creature so libelled by the fabulist.

Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as follows:—

I.

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