Robert Louis Stevenson

Dark brown is the river,
     Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
     With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
     Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
     Where will all come home?

On goes the river
     And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
     Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
     A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
     Shall bring my boats ashore.