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The sunny lad and sunny lass
Troup daily by our door
Picking flowers and blades of grass,
Singing as they nimbly pass
With joy all running o'er,
Laughing like the chime of a bells
As they skim along the way.
How its silver music wells
In loving hearts that ever tells
Of their morning rich and gay
Wit a radiance of the skies
Dropped like diamonds from the earth,
Painted rare with angel dyes
In their laughing sunny eyes,
Priceless in their very worth.
Hear them clatter down the hills
Like a troup of faries shod,
Hastening to the rocky rils
With a merry laugh that thrill
Each one with an angle rod.
Or perchance they ride along
Trouping onward through the woods,
Laughing like a silver gong
Chiming with some silver song
Muffled by the leafy hoods.
Yes, we see the tiny tot
And the aged pass us by
Just a sweet for-get-me-not
Ready for the florist's pot
To be transplanted in the sky. |
