Flows o’er a bed of silver sand,
And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleeping
Babes of Babyland.
The path to the valley of Babyland
Only the kingly, kind white storks know.
If they fly over mountains or wade thro’ fountains—
No man sees them come and go;
But an angel, maybe, who guards some baby,
Or a fairy, perhaps, with her magic wand,
Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway,