The Lark in the Morning

The lark in the morning she rises from her nest, She mounts into the air with the dew on her breast. ’Twas down in yonder meadow I carelessly did stray, For there’s no-one like the ploughboy in the merry month of May.

When his day’s work is over and then what will he do? He’ll fly into the country his way to go, And with his pretty sweetheart he’ll whistle and he’ll sing, And at night he’ll return to his old home again.

And when he returns from his wake unto the town, The meadows they are mowed and the grass it is cut down. The nightingale she whistles upon the hawthorn spray And the moon is a-shining upon the new-mown hay.

So here’s luck to the ploughboys wherever they may be. They’ll take a winsome lass to sit on their knee, And with a jug of beer, boys, they’ll whistle and they’ll sing, For the ploughboy is as happy as a prince or a king.