The little Lark.

I hear a pretty bird, but hark!

I cannot see it any where:

Oh! it is a little lark,

Singing in the morning air.

Little lark, do tell me why

You are singing in the sky.

Other little birds at rest,

Have not yet begun to sing;

Every one is in its nest,

With its head behind its wing:

Little lark, then, tell me why

You sing so early in the sky.

You look no bigger than a bee,

In the middle of the blue,

Up above the poplar tree;

I can hardly look at you:

Come, little lark, and tell me why

You are mounted up so high.

’Tis to watch the silver star,

Sinking slowly in the skies;

And beyond the mountain far,

To see the glorious sun arise:

Little lady, this is why

I am mounted up so high.

’Tis to sing a merry song,

To the pleasant morning light:

Why linger in my nest so long,

When the sun is shining bright?

Little lady, this is why

I sing so early in the sky.

To the little birds below,

I do sing a merry tune;

And I let the ploughman know

He must come to labour soon.

Little lady, this is why

I am singing in the sky.