De ta magro péu dessecado La marriasso fai becado; Te curo lou perus, te chapouto à moucèu, T’encafourno pèr car-salado, Requisto prouvisioun, l’ivèr, en tèms de nèu. III Vaqui l’istori veritablo Bèn liuen dòu conte de la fablo. Que n’en pensas, canèu de sort! —O ramaissaire de dardeno, Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno Que gouvernas lou mounde emé lou coffre-fort, Fasès courre lou bru, canaio Que l’artisto jamai travaio E dèu pati, lou bedigas. Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco La Cigalo a cava la rusco, Raubas soun bèure, e pièi, morto, la rousigas. Thus speaks my friend, in his expressive Provençal tongue, rehabilitating the Cicada, who has been so grossly libelled by the fabulist. TRANSLATOR’S NOTE I am indebted for the following translation to the felicitous pen of my friend Mr. Osman Edwards: THE CICADA AND THE ANT I Ye gods, what heat! Cicada thrills With mad delight when fairy rills Submerge the corn in waves of gold, When, with bowed back and toil untold, His blade the songless reaper plies, For in dry throats song gasps and dies. This hour is thine: then, loud and clear, Thy cymbals clash, Cicada dear, Let mirrors crack, let belly writhe! Behold! The man yet darts his scythe, Whose glitter lifts and drops again A lightning-flash on ruddy grain. With grass and water well supplied, His whetstone dangles at his side; The whetstone in its case of wood Has moisture for each thirsty mood; But he, poor fellow, pants and moans, The marrow boiling in his bones. Dost thirst, Cicada? Never mind! Deep in a young bough’s tender rind Thy sharp proboscis bores a well, Whence, narrowly, sweet juices swell. Ah, soon what honied joys are thine To quaff a vintage so divine! In peace? Not always.... There’s a band Of roving thieves (or close at hand) Who watched thee draw the nectar up And beg one drop with doleful cup. Beware, my love! They humbly crave; Soon each will prove a saucy knave. The merest sip?—’Tis set aside. What’s left?—They are not satisfied. All must be theirs, who rudely fling A rakish claw athwart thy wing; Next on thy back swarm up and down, From tip to toe, from tail to crown. On every side they fuss and fret, Provoking an impatient jet; Thou leavest soon the sprinkled rind, Its robber-rascals, far behind; Thy well purloined, each grins and skips And licks the honey from her lips.