Smock’d in lace and flowered brocade, my pretty son of seven
Wept sore because the kitten died, and left the charge uneven.
“I head one battalion, mother—
Kitty,” sobbed he, “led the other!
And when we reach’d the bee-hive bench
We used to halt and storm the trench:
If we could plant our standard here,
With all the bees a-buzzing near,
And fly the colors safe from sting,
The town was taken for the king!”