Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/229

 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!" Flirting flitting over the thyme, by bees with yellow band— My little son of seven came close, and clipp'd me by the hand; A wreath of mourning cloth was wound His small left arm and sword-hilt round, And on the thatch of every hive a whisp of black was bound. "Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or they will swarm away: Ye little bees!" he called, "draw nigh, and hark to what I say, And make us golden honey still for our white wheaten bread,   Though never more    We rush on war    With Kitty at our head:    Who'll give the toast    When swords are cross'd,    Now Kitty lieth dead?"