What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Thro' the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.
What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.
But they say, the bee's a rover,
Who will fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.
Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.