And gave up her keys, when the Duke came by;
And the maids of Taunton paid him court
With colors their own white hands had wrought;
And red as a field, where blood doth run,
Sedgemoor blazed in the setting sun.
Broider’d sash and clasp of gold, my soldier son, alas!
The mint was all in flower, and the clover in the grass:
“With every bed
In bloom,” I said,
“What further lack the bees,