Page:Field Poems of Childhood.djvu/191



HE top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song

To my dear little boy at play—

Merrily singeth all day long,

As it spinneth and spinneth away.

And my dear little boy

He laugheth with joy

When he heareth the monotone

Of that busy thing

That loveth to sing

The song that is all its own.

Hold fast the string and wind it tight,

That the song be loud and clear;

Now hurl the top with all your might

Upon the banquette here;

And straight from the string

The joyous thing

Boundeth and spinneth along,

And it whirrs and it chirrs

And it birrs and it purrs

Ever its pretty song.