The Sun's Travels

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.