Twenty times a day we go
Round about the room just so,
Stopping here to watch the clock,
Pausing here a chair to rock,
Standing here to see the light
On and off, now dark, now bright,
Here to watch the sunbeams creep
On a painted flock of sheep.

Here's a merry round to make,
Here's a wonder-ride to take!
Same old glorious sights to view,
Never changed, but always new.
Starting at the clock we go
To the joys she's learned to know;
She's the driver, I'm the stage,
Bound for the canary cage.

Nothing must be missed at all,
On the shelf or on the wall,
This old battered coach must make
Every stop for pleasure's sake.
“Oo!” she cries, and that's a hint
Something she would finger-print,
Wheresoever we have been
There her thumb marks may be seen.

Which is happier, driver—stage,
Babyhood or gray-haired age?
Well, her smiles are fair to see,
But the coach I'm proud to be,
Glad that I can make the trip
Out and back without a slip,
Proud to be her daily stage
Bound for the canary cage.