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 abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.
So hallowed and so gracious is that time.
You May Also Like / View all maxioms
The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the read more
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.
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The read more
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he read more
Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations.
O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
read more
O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing,
Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more
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 golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!
It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale.
The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer,
Chaunts with a cheer, Heer peer-I neer my Deer;
Then read more
The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer,
Chaunts with a cheer, Heer peer-I neer my Deer;
Then stooping thence (seeming her fall to rew)
Adieu (she saith) adieu, deer Deer, adieu.
