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

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 ...

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.

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the wo ...

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

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

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 abroa ...

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

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.