The sun is not a-bed, when I At night upon my pillow lie; Still round the earth his way he takes, And morning after morning makes.

While here at home, in shining day, We round the sunny garden play, Each little Indian sleepy-head Is being kissed and put to bed.

And when at eve I rise form tea, Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; And all the children in the west Are getting up and being dressed.