Song

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow ;
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark,

To the soothing song of sorrow.
Oh nightingale ! What doth she ail ?

And is she sad or jolly ?
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth
So like to melancholy.
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.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,

The nightingale is trilling ;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,
Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon, a sigh,
Peers through her lavish mirth ;
For the lark's bold song is of the sky,
And her's is of the earth.

By night and day, she tunes her lay,
To drive away all sorrow ;

For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass,
And woe may come to-morrow.