A More Ancient Mariner

The swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A burly velveted rover, Who loves the booming wind in his ear As he sails the seas of clover. A waif of the goblin pirate crew, With not a soul to deplore him, He steers for the open verge of blue With the filmy world before him. He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, And levies on poor Sweetbrier; He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, And the Rose is his desire. He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; He rifles the Buckwheat patches; Then battens his store of pelf galore Under the tautest hatches. He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, Inveigles Daffodilly, And then like a tramp abandons each For the gorgeous Canada Lily. He dares to boast, along the coast, The beauty of Highland Heather,⁠— How he and she, with night on the sea, Lay out on the hills together. He pilfers from every port of the wind, From April to golden autumn; But the thieving ways of his mortal days Are those his mother taught him. He never could box the compass round; He doesn’t know port from starboard; But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, Where the choicest goods are harbored. He never could see the Rule of Three, But he knows a rule of thumb Better than Euclid’s, better than yours, Or the teachers’ yet to come. He drones along with his rough sea-song And the throat of a salty tar, This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair By the light of a yellow star. He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, And works like a Trojan hero; Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, With the mercury at zero.