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The Sun 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 from tea, 

Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; 

And all the children in the west 

Are getting up and being dressed.

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