In a little cot so dreary,
With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,
Sat a mother sad and weary,
With her darling on her knee;
Their humble fare at best was sparing,
For the father he was shearing,
With his three brave sons o’ Erin,
Down in the Fen country.

All her Saxon neighbours leave her,
With her boy and demon fever,
The midnight watch—none to relieve her,
Save a Little Bisey Bee:
He was called the Aram-Skaram,
Noisy as a drum clock laram,
Yet his treasures he would share ’em,
With his friend right merrily.

Every night and every morning,
With the day sometimes at dawning,
While the mother, sick and swooning,
To his dying mate went he:
Robbing his good Saxon mother,
Giving to his Celtic brother,
Who asked—for him and no other,
Until his spirit it was free.

Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;
Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;
This little noble-hearted ruffin,
At the wake each night went he:
Sabbath morning he was ready,
Warn’d the bearers to be steady,
Taking Peter to his Biddy,
And a tear stood in his e’e.

Onward as the corpse was passing,
Ere the priest gave his last blessing,
Through the dingy crowd came pressing,
The father and the brothers three:
’Tis our mother—we will greet her;
How is this that here we meet her?
And without our little Peter,
Who will solve this mystery?

The Aram-Skaram interfered,
Soon this corpse will be interred,
Come with us and see it burried,
Out in yonder cemetery:
Soon they knew the worst, and pondered
Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;—
And returning home, they wondered
Who their little friend could be!

Turning round to him they bowed,
Much they thanked him, much they owed;
While the tears each cheek bedewed,
Wisht him all prosperity:
“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,
What I have done, do ye to others;
We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”
Said the little Bisey Bee.