Beekeeping Traditions For the Ages

Bloomfield Bees Honey shares this poem with our fellow beekeepers from Scots poet F.W. Moorman

Bees, bees, sad tidings I bear
Bees, bees, murmurin' low
Cauld in his grave lies your maister dear
Bees, bees, murmurin' low
Nae mair he'll fettle his sicle for corn
Nae mair he'll ride to the sound o' the horn
Nae mair he'll come to your skep of a morn
Bees, bees, murmurin' low

Look, conny* bees, I's winndin' black crape,     *darling
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Else you will sicken and dwine* reet away,     *waste
Heart-broken bees, now your maister is clay:
Or, mebbe, you'll leave us wi' t' dawn o' t'day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low:

Sitha! I bring you your share o' the feast.
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal* an' wine you mun taste,     *ale
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Gie some t' queen on her gowlden throne,
Ther's foison* to feed both worker an' drone     *plenty
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

F.W. MOORMAN from 'Songs of the Ridings'.

It is said that when a beekeeper dies, one must go to his hives and whisper to his bees that their master has departed. This honors both bees and beekeepers, and we hope you enjoyed reading this poem.