He strains his sight into the hole;
"They'll swarm to day—upon my soul."
His brain swims round, his eyes feel heavy,
He sees no more the increasing levee.
His nose, as down and down it drops,
His half used pipe of 'bacca stops.—
Buzz, buzz!—Hum, hum! a joyful sound,
Echoes the teeming hive around.
All gather at the trumpet's clang
To hear their noble Queen's harangue.—