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.)
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!
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.