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The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.

The merry lark he soars on high, No worldly thought o'ertakes him. He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, And the daylight that awakes him.

The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings. He takes your window for the East And to implore your light he sings.

The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer, Chaunts with a cheer, Heer peer-I neer my Deer; Then stooping thence Adieu adieu, deer Deer, adieu.

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy swelling-place-- O, to abide in the desert with thee!

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed.

None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings.

To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise.

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

The bird that soars on highest wing, Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that doth most sweetly sing, Sings in the shade when all things rest: In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility.

I said to the sky-poised Lark: "Hark--hark! Thy note is more loud and free Because there lies safe for thee A little nest on the ground."

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come, darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

O happy skylark springing Up to the broad, blue sky, Too fearless in thy winging, Too gladsome in thy singing, Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing.

Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise, Arise, arise!

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm. So hallowed and so gracious is that time.

It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.