Page:The eighth sin (IA eighthsin00morlrich).pdf/32



Peter, on your tree of bronze Where children feed the ducks and swans, Dear Peter, play a tune—don't wait Till big policemen shut the gate And leave you lonely—blow, O blow The music that the children know.

Dear Peter, you need have no fear Lest grown-up folks should overhear— Too grave and busy for such glee They will not heed your minstrelsy. Your pipe is at your lips—please blow For we are waiting here below.

The birds and fairies in the park Can hear you piping after dark, But we must hear you now, you see, Before Nurse takes us home to tea. I think she's coming. . . Do just blow One tiny tune before we go!