WHAT song shall I sing to you
Now the wee ones are in bed,
What books shall I bring to you
Now each little sleepy head
Is tucked away on pillow white,
All snug and cosy for the night.
Many many singers now,
Sing their new songs in the land,
Many writers bring us now
Many books to understand,
But I can sing, these evening times,
Only the children's songs and rhymes.
All the day they play with me,
My heart grows full of their looks,
All their prattle stays with me,
And I have no mind for books,
Nor care for any other tune
Than they have sung this golden June.