A song to the lark,
the merry, merry lark;
He soars with a spirit's flight
Through the misty clouds that morning shrouds,
He flies to the fountain of light.
He is a true Orangebird, for when William the Third
Led his troops of the first of July,
The lark's merry song cheered the hero along
With melody down from the sky
Then a song to the lark, the merry
Who loves in the blue air to swim:
He is the true Orangebird of William the Third,
For he sang him an Orange Hymn.
From his fluttering wings when the
dewdrops he flings
They seem, as they glance to the earth
Like atoms of light in their downward flight,
Or sparkles of brilliant mirth.
As he soars into light from the mists of the night.
He's a type of the soul unconfined
Which burst through the clouds which the bigot, the proud
Would have cast o'er the Protestant mind.
How sweet in the vale as the nightingale
Breathes his song to the gloomy stars;
Then the sentinel still encamped on the hill
Thinks of home far away from the wars.
But the lark, O for me, and his wild melody
Piping high like a martial fife;
Its music doth come to the soldier's drum
And quickens the springs of life.
The eagle, great bird is rapacious
Too aristocratic for me
On his throne amidst the rocks human grandeur he mocks
Wrapt up in his royalty
But, O, take my word, the lark is the bird
For true men wherever they be;
His home is the green earth the land of our birth
And his song is the song of the free.