A Cuckoo, near a hive, one day,
Was chaunting in his usual way,
When to the door the Queen-bee ran,
And, humming angrily, began:
"Do cease that tuneless song I hear--
How can we work while thou art near?
There is no other bird, I vow,
Half so fantastical as thou,
Since all that ugly voice can do,
Is to sing on--'Cuckoo! cuckoo'!"
"If my monotony of song
Displeases you, shall I be wrong,"
The Cuckoo answered, "if I find
Your comb has little to my mind?
Look at the cells--through every one
Does not unvaried sameness run?
Then if in me there's nothing new,
Dear knows, all's old enough in you."
The Bee replied: "Hear me, my friend.
In works that have a useful end
It is not always worth the while
To seek variety in style,
But if those works whose only views
Are to give pleasure and amuse,
Want either fancy or invention,
They fail of gaining their intention."