Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my bees of yellow girth: My son of seven changed his mood, and clasp’d me in his mirth. “Sweet mother, when I grow a man and fall on battlefield,” He cried, and down in the daisied grass upon one knee he kneel’d, “I charge thee, come and tell the bees how I for the king lie dead; And thou shalt never lack fine honey for thy wheaten bread!” * * * * * 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, 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, That they buzz so loud, Like a restless cloud, Among the orchard trees?” No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor field, Moan’d out how Grey and the horse had reel’d; Met me no ghost, with haunting eyes, That westward pointed ’mid its sighs, And pull’d apart a bloody vest, And show’d the sword-gash in his breast.