HOW'S MY BOY?

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman, Yonder down in the town;

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor:
Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no.

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."" "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him over the town.

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy - my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor ;
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her.”

Burly, dozing.

humble bee,

Where then art is Chime for me..
Let them fail for PortoRique,
Far-off heats through heas to feek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thon animated torridisons!

TO THE HUMBLEBEE.

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother.

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him and no other.

How's my boy-my boy?"

SYDNEY Dobell.

TO THE HUMBLEBEE.

FINE humblebee, fine humblebee!
Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone !
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Flower-bells,

Honeyed cells:

These the tents

Which he frequents.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere,

Swimmer through the waves of air,

TO THE HUMBLEBEE.

Voyager of light and noon,
Epicurean of June!

Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within ear-shot of thy hum;
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And, infusing subtile heats,
Turns the sod to violets:
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot Midsummer's petted crone !
Sweet to me thy drowsy tune,
Telling of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;