The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings. He takes your window for the East And to implore your light he sings.

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.

It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

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.

Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.