Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 4
What the bee is to the flowert,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.
3. 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.
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