Flitting, flitting, flitting, my busy bees, alas!
No footsteps of my soldier son came clinking through the grass.
Thrice he kiss’d me for farewell;
And far on the stone his shadow fell;
He buckled spurs and sword-belt on, as the sun began to stoop,
Set foot in stirrup, and sprang to horse, and rode to join his troop.
To the west he rode, where the winds were at play,
And Monmouth’s army mustering lay;
Where Bridgewater flew her banner high,