The sun is sinking o'er the hills
And casting gold on earth;
The children in the harvest fields
Hail it with joy and mirth.

So often through the glowing day
They gazed up with a frown,
And wondered in their little hearts
It would not hasten down.

The master sees the fiery ball
Has hid its rays of light;
He gives the signal, as to say:
'Cease toiling for the night.'

The little children, tired and worn
From toiling all the day,
They hear the blessed evening bell—
Skip homeward on their way.