The sunshine is a glorious thing
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot,
The noble's painted hall.
The moonlight is a gentle thing:
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow, where
The happy infant dreams;
It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lonely sea,
Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak-tree.
The dewdrops on the summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;
The village children brush them off
That through the meadow pass.
There are no gems in monarch's crowns
More beautiful than they;
And yet we scarcely notice them,
And tread them off in play.
Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings
Beside the cottage door;
The heath-flower fills the air with sweets
Upon the pathless moor.
There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,
For those who sit by cottage hearths,
As those who sit on thrones!