Di gros sa, ren de ren sara tieu.
"Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto; Crebo de fam l'iver, tu que cantes l'estieu." Ansin charro la fablo antico Per nous counseia la pratico Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun De si bourso .-- Que la coulico Rousigue la tripaio en aqueli coudoun! 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.
This way and that they pull.

Impatient thou: Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous taste O'er the assembly sprinklest.