POETRY.
A CITY SONG.
fa The Bee is small among such as fly," So royal David sings,
" Her fruit," however, hear David cry, " Is chief of sweet things."
MR. BEE, a business man Of probity,
Arranged his life on a most simple plan, And fruitfully.
He reached his office, hat in hand, Each day at ten : Telephoned to lords, and bankers, and Plain business men.
Frequenting busy City parts Roused thoughts of honey,
And wild thyme beds, and hives, in jaded hearts Accumulating money.
For who would judge a Bee As other than The pattern of industrious honesty ?
The City man Fell dreaming at the broker's name Bucolically, And, when commission-earning business came, Gave it to Bee.
Bee left his office, hat on head, Each day at four : Having toiled to gather daily bread, Wandered no more.
Bee sang in his bath, through hoarse; Froth made of soap-cake ;
This BARRY.
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