All July and August, so glad and so gay,
The Butterfly's feasts they were crowded each day;
But alas for all pleasures, the summer's at end,
And the guests of the banquets now mourn for their friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The Emmets and Flies will no longer advance
To join with their wings in the Grasshopper's dance,
For see his fine form o'er the favorite bend,
The Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
And hark to the funeral song of the Bee,
And the Beetle who follows as solemn as he;
And see where so mournful the green rushes wave,
The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The Dormouse he came and stood cold and forlorn,
And the Gnat he wound slowly his shrill little horn,
And the Moth, being grieved at the loss of a sister,
Bent over her body and silently kissed her.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun,
And inclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun;
By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid
On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
In dozens and scores came the Grasshoppers all,
And six of their number supported the pall;
And the Spider came too, in his mourning so black,
But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back
From Butterfly dead.
The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng,
And solemnly led the sad Book-worm along,
Who wept his poor neighbor's unfortunate doom,
And wrote these few lines to be placed on the tomb
Of Butterfly dead:
"TO THE BUTTERFLY MAID.
"At this solemn spot where the green rushes wave
Is buried fair Butterfly deep in the grave;
A friend unto all, she has run her short race:
Like a flower on wings with its beauty and grace
Was this Butterfly Maid."