The morn gets up with a sparkling eye,
And a cheek like a hawthorn berry,
And sendeth her herald to the sky,
To twitter his song so merry:
He’s the eldest born
Of his mother Morn,
And his voice is shrill and jolly;
And what saith he,
That herald free
Philosophy, mirth, or folly?
’Tis Wisdom’s voice, though it speak in mirth,
’Tis a wise, wise lay-ah, very!
And he calls on all in air and earth
To join in his song so merry:
He saith that health
Is better than wealth,
And cheerfulness better than sorrow;
Calling on sloth,
If it prize them both,
To rise with the sun to-morrow.
These are the words of his mother Morn,
The hunter hears him singing,
And winds a blast on his mountain horn,
Till he sets the wild woods ringing:
And this is the lay
Of the lark so gay,
With his voice so shrill and merry;
When Morn doth rise
With her sparkling eyes,
And her cheek like the hawthorn berry.