Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Dead Lark

The Dead Lark.

Ah! there it falls, and now 'tis dead,The shot went through its pretty head, And broke its shining wing!How dull and dim its closing eyes!How cold, and stiff, and still it lies, Poor harmless little thing!

It was a lark, and in the skyIn mornings fair it mounted high To sing a merry song;Cutting the fresh and healthy air,It whistled out its music there, As light it skimmed along.

All night beneath her pretty breastShe warmed her young ones in her nest, Hid in the springing corn;And when she saw the sun arise,She flew up singing to the skies, Ah, never to return!

Poor little bird I her helpless brood,Who cry in vain for care or food, Will die when dark night lowers;Nor shall we see her mounting wing,Or hear her song that told of spring, And budding leaves, and flowers!