The sun is down and all is black,
Except for the rider on a horse's back,
Whenever the moon shines through the dark,
He comes a-galloping to the park.

Flittering, fluttering,
not a sound,
Away he goes;
round and round.

The sun will wake behind
the dome,
The rider he should
go back home.

The sun is up and it is day,
Children rush around so gay.
The rider he gallops ever so tall,
He'll be back by nightfall.