HE.

What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Thro' the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

But they say, the bee's a rover,
Who will fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.