At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun,
I crawl All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
There are the hills, there are the woods,
There are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
