FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT 13 



III. 



Vaqui I'istori veritable 

 Ben liuen dou conte de la fablo. 

 Que n'en pensas, caneu de sort ! 

 — O rammaissaire de dardeno 

 Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno 

 Que gouvernas lou mounde erne lou coffre-fort, 



Fases courre lou bru, canaio, 

 Que I'artisto jamai travaio 

 E deu pati, lou bedigas. 

 Teisas-vous dounc : quand di lambrusco 

 La Cigalo a cava la rusco, 

 Raubas souii beure, e piei, morto, la rousigas. 



So speaks my friend in the expressive Provengal 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. Days 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. 



