“IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?” BY MAY PROBYN We were playing on the green together, My sweetheart and I-- Oh, so heedless in the gay June weather, When the word went forth that we must die. Oh, so merrily the balls of amber And of ivory tossed we to the sky, While the word went forth in the King’s chamber, That we both must die. Oh, so idly, straying through the pleasaunce, Plucked we here and there Fruit and bud, while in the royal presence The King’s son was casting from his hair Glory of the wreathen gold that crowned it, And, ungirding all his garment fair, Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it, With his feet made bare, Down the myrtled stairway of the palace, Ashes on his head, Came he, through the rose and citron alleys, In the rough sark of sackcloth habited, And in a hempen halter--oh! we jested, Lightly, and we laughed as he was led To the torture, while the bloom we breasted Where the grapes grew red. Oh, so sweet the birds, when he was dying, Piped to her and me-- Is no room this glad June day for sighing-- He is dead, and she and I go free! When the sun shall set on all our pleasure We will mourn him--What, so you decree We are heartless?--Nay, but in what measure Do you more than we? THE BEES OF MYDDLETON MANOR 17th Century BY MAY PROBYN Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my golden-belted bees: My little son was seven years old--the mint-flower touched his knees; Yellow were his curly locks; Yellow were his stocking-clocks; His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt; Where the garden beds lay sunny, And the bees were making honey, “For God and the king--to arms! to arms!” the day long would he lilt. 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?”