THE little weary, winged bees 

Give up their honey-quest, 

And all the little singing birds

Fly home and go to rest. 

The butterflies fold up at last

Their shining golden crowns; 

And daisies, in their wee white caps, 

Sleep on the dewy downs.

The cattle, with their tinkling bells,

Come home across the wold, 

And you're the only little lamb

That's left without the fold. 

Then come, my darling, it is time

Thou, too, shouldst find thy rest, 

The violet's eyes, as blue as thine,

Droop on each dewy breast.

Then haste, before the stars climb up 

The blue wall of the skies;

For sure you would not let them see 

Such drooping little eyes.