Early and late, early and late,

Little Boy swings on the garden gate.

“It isn’t a gate; it’s a motor car!

I’m travelling fast and I’m travelling far.

I toot my horn and I turn my wheel,

And nobody knows how grand I feel!”

Early and late, early and late,

Little Boy swings on the garden gate.

“It isn’t a gate; it’s a great big ship!

I’m off to the Pole on a ’sploring trip.

I’ll ride a white bear, holding on by his hair,

Early and late, early and late,

Little Boy swings on the garden gate.

“It isn’t a gate; it’s a big balloon!

I’m going to sail till I reach the moon.

I’ll play with the Man as hard as I can,

And I’ll stir up the stars with a great horn spoon.”

Early and late, early and late,

“It isn’t a gate; it’s—” off runs he,

His mother is calling, “Come in to tea!”

It’s a wonderful gate, but it just isn’t able

To turn itself into a supper-table.