XLV. THAT OF A DECEASED FLY. (A Ballade.)

A little busy buzzy fly

Before my window oft would go,

I daily saw him sailing by

And thought that I would like to know

More of that little fly, and oh!

I raised my hat, and bowed, and said,

"How do!" The fly replied, "So, so!"

(Alas! that little fly is dead.)

We grew quite friendly, he and I,

He'd come when called—I called him Joe.—

He was a most amusing fly.

At evening, when the sun was low,

Or, by the firelight's ruddy glow

He'd hopscotch on my buttered bread

Or o'er my jam, with nimble toe.

(Alas! that little fly is dead.)

I saved him once, when none was by;

From out the milk jug's fatal flow

I fished him out, and let him dry.

His gratitude he tried to show

In many ways I know, I know;

But—when upon my bald, bald head

He gamboled, could I stand it? No!

Alas! that little fly is dead!

Envoy.

Prince. Pity, not your blame, bestow.

Remember all the tears I've shed.

What could I do? It tickled so.

Alas! That little fly is dead.