My Dear Friend Bunbury
My dear friend Bunbury’s life was free,
Not like a pigeon post, a missive bearer,
But like a swallow, who hovered with glee,
And from captivities fled, a real farer.
When matters muddled, he would simplify;
To do me a favor he would always be glad.
His deeds, if listed, would judges stupefy,
Yet judge he was not, for measures he had.
So much would I commend him more,
Yet such praises worried his modesty.
Such helpfulness wearied him to the floor,
And oft a visit I pay him, with sincerity.
To see him I my engagements threw,
To seize the day like a swallow I flew.