With Kitty at our head:
Who’ll give the toast
When swords are cross’d,
Now Kitty lieth dead?”
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my bees of yellow girth:
My son of seven changed his mood, and clasp’d me in his mirth.
“Sweet mother, when I grow a man and fall on battlefield,”
He cried, and down in the daisied grass upon one knee he kneel’d,
“I charge thee, come and tell the bees how I for the king lie dead;
And thou shalt never lack fine honey for thy wheaten bread!”