A Child's Day

All day long he has been busy
Little barrows trundling round
One especial plot of ground;
I should think he must be dizzy.

Not the little busy bee,
Not the merchant in the City,
Not the Brotherhood of Pity,
E'er was busier than he.

When the Sun got up this morning
He to feed the flowers began
With a scarlet watering-can,
Rest and sleep and breakfast scorning.

Now the Sun has all but set,
On the very selfsame flowers
Still dispensing liberal showers
See, the gardener's happy yet.