17th Century
By May Probyn
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my golden-belted bees:
My little son was seven years old—the mint-flower touched his knees;
Yellow were his curly locks;
Yellow were his stocking-clocks;
His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt;
Where the garden beds lay sunny,
And the bees were making honey,
“For God and the king—to arms! to arms!” the day long would he lilt.