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.