40 
THE ENTOMOLOGIST’S WEEKLY INTELLIGENCER. 
THE SONG OF THE MOTHS. 
With lingers weary and cold, 
With an aching back, there lay 
A man stretched out on a waterproof 
coat, 
Plying a trowel in clay, 
Dig ! — dig ! — dig ! 
A laugh rung out loud from some Goths ; 
Come hither, he said, and list while I 
sing 
This song, — “ The Song of the Moths.” 
M unch, — munch, — munch, 
While the lark is singing on high 
And munch, — munch, — munch, 
When moon and stars gem the sky. 
And oh ! but God is great, 
He cares for these delicate forms, 
These poor helpless things that so soon 
will change 
And quit this “ diet of worms.” 
Munch, — munch, — munch, 
Till the skin begins to crack : 
Munch, — munch, — munch, 
When new coats have grown to their 
back — 
Third, and second, and first, 
First, and second, and third, 
And then comes a change more wonder- 
ful still — 
While he sung they scarcely stirr’d. 
O ! men with sisters dear ! 
O ! men with mothers and wives ! 
Go learn that your God a lesson gives 
In these poor creatures’ lives. 
An egg brings forth a worm, 
Which feeds and goes down to its grave 
Not dead, but buried alive for months 
Through winter its life to save. 
But why do I talk of Death ? 
To show that since man was born, 
All these insects are types of his change 
Till resurrection’s morn. 
Their change so like our own, 
What seems death is but a sleep, 
To fit us for holier states, 
Where we shall cease to weep. 
Dig! — dig ! — dig! 
The sexton never flags. 
He sings at his work, no matter who’s 
dead, 
King, or beggar in rags. 
The splendid hall, and the naked floor, 
The castle, the humble hearth, 
All give up their tenants to take this 
sleep 
In the arms of mother earth. 
Dig !— dig ! — dig ! 
There’s work mv men to do: 
Dig! — dig! — dig ! 
The labourers are but few. 
Worm, and pupa, and egg — 
Egg, and pupa, and worm, 
With the times and seasons are made to 
change, 
And put on another form. 
Dig ! — dig ! — dig! 
In this dull autumnal light, 
And dig! — dig! — dig! 
Ere the weather is warm and bright ; 
For from beneath the ground 
These pupae then shall rise, 
And sail aloft on beauteous wings, 
Beneath the sunny skies. 
To see them sip the sweets 
From the flowers that deck the mead, 
Or watch them toy with their mates, 
To me is pleasure indeed. 
Oh ! that for one short hour, 
You felt as I then do feel, 
A Maker’s love in your bosoms, 
Melting your hearts of steel. 
Give, then, but one short hour, 
A respite, however brief, 
To carnal thoughts of the man-made 
world, 
With its mad joy and grief, 
And turn ye to God with childish heart, 
And meek and lowly mind, 
And see bis love in all that lives, 
Whatever be its kind. 
With fingers weary and cold, 
With an aching back, there lay 
A man stretched out on a waterproof 
coat, 
Plying his trowel in clay, 
Dig ! — dig ! — dig ! 
The laughter had ceas’d ’inongst the 
Goths, 
And slowly and sad they wended their 
way 
From the place where the old man lay 
And sung this “ Song of the Moths.” 
Printed and published by Edward Nkwman, 
Printer, of No. 9, Devonshire Street, Bishops* 
tfalo Without, London, in the county of Mid- 
dlesex. — Saturday, Mny 2, 1H57. 
