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 from tea, Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea, And all the children in the West Are getting up and being dressed.