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.