This text comes from A First Series of Hymns and Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Sweet lab'rer, 'mid the summer's golden hour,
Full oft I trace thy little busy flight,
With pleasure see thee perch from flow'r to flow'r,
On violets, woodbines, roses, lilies bright.
Yet what to thee is summer's golden smile?
And what to thee the flower-enamell'd plain?
Will gratitude reward thy daily toil?
No, no; thou workest for reward in vain.
Thy honied wealth is soon no longer thine;
Rapacity shall force thy little door:
Those treasures with thy life thou must resign,
A breathless victim, on thy fragrant store.