“PAST-TEN-O'CLOCK-LAND”

There's a lovely land that is all your own,

If your years but number ten,

Where the cherryblossom's ever in flower,

And found in “Past-ten-o'clock Glen.”

There's a river with musical water-falls,

You paddle as long as you please,

And the daisies do n't die as you pick them,

When found on “Past-ten-o'clock Leas.”

And the rivulet leads to a harbour,

Full of the quaintest of ships,

One wish will transport you to China,

Or other “Past-ten-o'clock Trips.”

Away in dim mountains of amber,

Which drop sheer down to the waves,

Fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed,

Live in “Past-ten-o'clock Caves.”

O! the folk understand you and love you,

You never can do any wrong —

You can shoot the cat with a catapult,

Or shout the “Past-ten-o'clock Song.”

You can play you are really an otter,

And get as wet as you like;

You can lie in wait as a Redskin does,

In a deep “Past-ten-o'clock Dyke.”

It's a lovely land that is all your own,

If you're only ten years old,

But when you are more, you are apt to forget

“Past-Ten-o'clock-Dreams of Gold!”