Me fai susa, lou fabulisto,
    Quand dis que l’iver vas en quisto
  De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai. 
    De blad!  Que n’en faries, ma fisto! 
  As ta fon melicouso e demandes ren mai.

    Que t’enchau l’iver!  Ta famiho
    A la sousto en terro soumiho,
  Et tu dormes la som que n’a ges de revei;
    Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho. 
  Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou vei,

De tu magro peu dessecado
La marriasso fai becado;
Te curo lou perus, te chapouto a mouceu,
T’encafourno per car-salado,
Requisto prouvisioun, l’iver, en tems de neu.

III.

Vaqui l’istori veritablo
Ben liuen dou conte de la fablo. 
Que n’en pensas, caneu de sort! 
—­O rammaissaire de dardeno
Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno
Que gouvernas lou mounde eme lou coffre-fort,

Fases courre lou bru, canaio,
Que l’artisto jamai travaio
E deu pati, lou bedigas. 
Teisas-vous dounc:  quand di lambrusco
La Cigalo a cava la rusco,
Raubas soun beure, e piei, morto, la rousigas.

So speaks my friend in the expressive Provencal idiom, rehabilitating the creature so libelled by the fabulist.

Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as follows:—­

I.

Fine weather for the Cigale!  God, what heat! 
Half drunken with her joy, she feasts
In a hail of fire.  Pays for the harvest meet;
A golden sea the reaper breasts,
Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long,
For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.

A blessed time for thee, little Cigale. 
Thy little cymbals shake and sound,
Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall! 
Man meanwhile swings his scythe around;
Continually back and forth it veers,
Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.

  Grass-plugged, with water for the grinder full,
    A flask is hung upon his hip;
  The stone within its wooden trough is cool,
    Free all the day to sip and sip;
  But man is gasping in the fiery sun,
  That makes his very marrow melt and run.

  Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst:  the bark,
    Tender and juicy, of the bough. 
  Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it.  Mark
    The narrow passage welling now;
  The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside,
  Who drinkest of the flood, the honeyed tide.

  Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive,
    Neighbours and wives, or wanderers vile;
  They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive
    Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile;
  Beauty, beware! the wallet-snatcher’s face,
  Humble at first, grows insolent apace.

  They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take;
    Soon discontent, their heads they toss;
  They crave for all, and all will have.  They rake
    Their claws thy folded wings across;
  Thy back a mountain, up and down each goes;
  They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.