Prelude

THERE'S a Bee Hive deep in Hell,
Far beneath the Devil's well,
Near that place called Fiddlers' Green,
Where the Imps are seldom seen.
Every thousand years each bee
Is allowed to have one spree.

In that prison underneath
          All the things of this creation,
Bumble bees from Brimstone Heath
          Are awaiting their vacation
When each bee in turn as King,
Is permitted just one fling.
Every thousand years each bee
Is allowed to have one spree.

THE LITTLE GIRLIE

Darling little girlie kneeling
Lost to every human feeling,
She is rapt with bliss divine,
Saying, "Not my will but Thine."
Charming little Lady Clare
Is a picture very fair.
Kneeling down beside her bed,
Piously she bows her head.
What a pretty picture she
Now presents to you and me,
Kneeling there so quietly,
Rapt in holy ecstasy.

Darling little Girlie kneeling—
          She is rapt with bliss divine,
Lost to every human feeling,
          Saying, "Not my will, but thine."

Heaven let thy mercy shine
On the tender clinging vine.
Plead for little Clare, oh plead,
What a lovely form, indeed!

See the kneeling girl so fair,
See the golden head of hair,
See the moonbeams shining bright
O'er her robe so snowy white.

Muslin nightie, fluffy, warm,
Clinging to the kneeling form
Of the lovely girlie girl,
Fairer than the gleaming pearl.

See the little feet—look there!—
Peeping out so pretty bare,
Nestling upon the floor
Where the Moonbeam, floating o'er,
Showers silver aureoles
O'er the pretty naked soles
Of the tender little feet.
What a picture—how complete!

Silver moon, now risen higher,
          Lighting up the scene but hear!
Hear the stinging bee. Retire,
          Stop thy venomous career.
Disappear, thou stinging flyer,
          Do not harm the girlie dear.

Discontent is now inciting
          Evil, setting witchcraft free,
Hovering about and smiting,
          Fighting, blighting, like some she
Dragon charging, scratching, biting,
          Monster from the Devil's tree,
          With resemblance of a bee,
Now ascending whirly twirly,
Just above the little girlie.

Now the bee is near the ceiling,
Buzzing o'er the girlie kneeling.
Round and round the bee doth twirl
Circling o'er the silent girl,
So uncanny—queer and queerer.

Now the bee is buzzing nearer,
Just above the head so curly
Of the kneeling little girlie
Kneeling on the silken mat.
See the bare feet thrust out flat,
See the naked soles upturning
Waiting for the stinging burning.

Now the bee is flying slower,
Circling a trifle lower.
It is buzzing through the air
All about the Lady Clare,
Hovering above those neat,
Pretty, little dimpled feet,
With the naked soles upturning
Waiting for the stinging burning.

What a cruel, stinging bee.
See it stinging—it is pre-
Occupied—fierce—no retreat,
Cruelly it stings the feet.
          See the crimson bleeding marks
On the little naked soles,
          Flaming, stinging cruel sparks!
Click the final curtain rolls.
          See the stinging bee career
          Headlong to its proper sphere.

Now the midnight bell is pealing,
Still the little girl is kneeling
          In her fluffy muslin nightie,
While her bare feet look at them,
          Soft and dimpled pink and whitie
Peeping from beneath the hem
          Of her fluffy muslin nightie.

See the pink spot on each foot
Where the ugly bee has put
Stinging poison in those bare
Dimpled feet so cute and fair.

Little girlie, gentle, pure,
          Evil cannot harm thee—never.
Pearl of innocence, secure,
          Heaven will protect thee ever.

Gentle footsteps are approaching,
Stealthily they are encroaching,
On the scene—look, she is there—
Mother of the little Clare.

Mother comes to rake the fire,
          As the air is chilly, rare.
Mother has but one desire
          Looking after little Clare.
Little dreaming of the fate
But we'll not anticipate.

Mother gently stirs the ashes
In the fire place. Red flashes,
Red-hot ashes scatter o'er,
Sizzling upon the floor.

Awful tragedy, appalling!
Blazing ashes crackle, falling
All about the room, revealing
Where the little girl is kneeling
In the midst of blazing ashes,
Kneeling where the fire flashes,
Kneeling while the flaming coal
Falls upon the naked sole
Of her little foot, Oh my!
Yet the girlie does not cry.

See the flaming red-hot coal
Dropping on the pink bare sole
Of the dimpled foot. But why
Don't the little girlie cry?

'Tis the writing on the wall.
          All is quiet, not a scream,
Not a sob, all quiet, all
          'Tis a cataleptic dream.
What's the matter, Lady Clare?
          What—no answer ? Is she weeping?
          See the silver moonbeam creeping
Lighting up her form so fair,
Lighting up her golden hair.
Can it be that she is sleeping?

Nothing now can terrify
Little Clare, nor make her cry.
          She has heard the Angel call,
And at once she did obey
          Unbeknown to us all.
Little Clare has passed away.
          All her troubles disappear,
          Blessings on the girlie dear.

Epilogue

Rank despair racks Fiddlers' Green,
All the stinging bees are seen
Fluffing up their horns like owls
With congestion of the jowls.

What an awful stir there is
In the Bee Hive—what a fizz!
There is news from up on Earth,
And of joy there is a dearth.
Gloom assails each stinging bug
Like the handle of a jug
On one side. 'Tis plainly seen
All are sad in Fiddlers' Green.
They have played the losing game,
Lady Clare escapes the flame.

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