Frederic William Moorman

Telling The Bees

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Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low ;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low ;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon, an' fine havver-bread.
But toom' is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Look, conny bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low ;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay ;
Or, mebbe, you'l leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Sitha ! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone ;
Oh ! dean't let us fend for oursels alone ;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

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Frederic William Moorman