The Beetle, See the beetle that crawls in your way,

The Beetle.

See the beetle that crawls in your way,

And runs to escape from your feet;

His house is a hole in the clay,

And the bright morning dew is his meat.

But if you more closely behold

This insect you think is so mean,

You will find him all spangled with gold,

And shining with crimson and green.

Tho' the peacock's bright plumage we prize,

As he spreads out his tail to the sun,

The beetle we should not despise,

Nor over him carelessly run.

They both the same Maker declare—

They both the same wisdom display,

The same beauties in common they share—

Both are equally happy and gay.

And remember that while you would fear

The beautiful peacock to kill,

You would tread on the poor beetle here,

And think you were doing no ill.

But though 'tis so humble, be sure,

As mangled and bleeding it lies,

A pain as severe 'twill endure,

As if 'twere a giant that dies.