The Fly & The Humble Bee

Fiddle-de-dee, Fiddle-de-dee,
The fly has married the humble bee.
Says the fly, says he,
"Will you marry me,
And live with me,
Sweet humble bee?"

Says the bee, says she,
"I'll live under your wing,
"And you'll never know
"That I carry a sting."
Fiddle-de-dee, &c.

So when the parson
Had joined the pair,
They both went out
To take the air,
Fiddle-de-dee, &c.

And the flies did buzz,
And the bells did ring--
Did ever you hear
So merry a thing?
Fiddle-de-dee, &c.

And then to think
That of all the flies
The humble bee
Should carry the prize.
Fiddle-de-dee, &c.

Walter Crane

Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator, considered to be one of the most prolific and influential children's book creators of his generation. Born on August 15, 1845, and passing away on March 14, 1915, he was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and is known for his innovative contributions to children's literature. His work often combined art and poetry, aiming to educate and delight young readers.

Walter Crane

Three Children

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Cat And Venus

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Man & The Snake

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

English

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Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXIII. Jingles.

    Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee,
    The fly shall marry the humble-bee.
    They went to the church, and married was she,
    The fly has married the humble-bee.

Unknown

The Bee-Boy's Song

'Dymchurch Flit', Puck of Pook's Hill.


Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
"Hide from your neigbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!"

A maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they'll fly away.
Fly away, die away,
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don't deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.

Marriage, birth or buryin',
News across the seas,
All you're sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell 'em coming in an' out,
Where the Fanners fan,
'Cause the Bees are just about
As curious as a man!

Don't you wait where the trees are,
When the lightnings play,
Nor don't ...

Rudyard

The Coach And The Fly.

^[1]

Upon a sandy, uphill road,
Which naked in the sunshine glow'd,
Six lusty horses drew a coach.
Dames, monks, and invalids, its load,
On foot, outside, at leisure trode.
The team, all weary, stopp'd and blow'd:
Whereon there did a fly approach,
And, with a vastly business air.
Cheer'd up the horses with his buzz, -
Now pricked them here, now prick'd them there,
As neatly as a jockey does, -
And thought the while - he knew 'twas so -
He made the team and carriage go, -
On carriage-pole sometimes alighting -
Or driver's nose - and biting.
And when the whole did get in motion,
Confirm'd and settled in the notion,
He took, himself, the total glory, -
Flew back and forth in wondrous hurry,
And, as he buzz'd about the cattle,

Jean de La Fontaine

Ye Frog's Wooing

1.

It was the frog lived in the well,
Heigh-ho! says Rowley;
And the merry mouse under the mill,
With a Rowley, Powley, Gammon, and Spinach,
Heigh-ho! says Anthony Rowley.

2.

The frog he would a-wooing ride, Heigh-ho, &c.
Sword and buckler at his side, With a, &c.

3.

When upon his high horse set, Heigh-ho, &c.
His boots they shone as black as jet, With a, &c.

4.

When he came to the merry mill-pin, Heigh-ho, &c.
"Lady Mouse, are you within?" With a, &c.

5.

Then came out the dusty mouse, Heigh-ho, &c.
"I am the lady of this house," With a, &c.

6.

"Hast thou any mind of me?" Heigh-ho, &c.
"I have e'en great mind of thee," With a, &c.
...

Walter Crane

The Fly

How large unto the tiny fly
    Must little things appear! -
A rosebud like a feather bed,
    Its prickle like a spear;

A dewdrop like a looking-glass,
    A hair like golden wire;
The smallest grain of mustard-seed
    As fierce as coals of fire;

A loaf of bread, a lofty hill;
    A wasp, a cruel leopard;
And specks of salt as bright to see
    As lambkins to a shepherd.

Walter De La Mare

The Yellow Fly.

A TALE WITH A STING IN IT.

Ah!
There you are!
I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar.
Mamma calls me a pup, but I'm wiser than she;
One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see;
Wide-awake though I doze, not a thing escapes me.

Yes!
Let me guess:
It's the stable-boy's hiss as he wisps down Black Bess.
It sounds like a kettle beginning to sing,
Or a bee on a pane, or a moth on the wing,
Or my master's peg-top, just let loose from the string.

Well!
Now I smell,
I don't know who you are, and I'm puzzled to tell.
You look like a fly dressed in very gay clothes,
But I blush to have troubled my mid-day repose
For a creature not worth half a twitch of my nose.

How now?
Bow, wow, wow!
The insect imagines we...

Juliana Horatia Ewing