This is my brave singer,
With his beak of gold;
Now my heart's a captive
In his song's sweet hold.
O, the lark's a rover,
Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
Hath a human love.
'Hark!' he says, 'in winter
Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
Summer breezes blow.'
'Hush!' he sings, 'with night-time
Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
Piping on his tree.'
O, my little lover,
Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
Skies so wide for you.