There is a country, so they say,
Where windmills grow like trees;
Where arms instead of branches, reach
To meet the coming breeze;
And all the little children there,
With clumping wooden shoes,
May seek their friendly shade to play
As often as they choose.
How strange ’twould be, when winter comes,
And all the other trees
Are shedding leaves of brown and red
To gather as we please,
To see the windmills drop their arms,
And all across the land
The little girls and boys come out
To find them on the sand.
