Song
The bee to the heather,
The lark to the sky,
The roe to the greenwood,
And whither shall I?
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
So sweet to the bee
Are moorland and heather
By Cannock and Leigh!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
O'er Teddesley Park
The sunny sky scatters
The notes of the lark!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
In Beaudesert glade
The roes toss their antlers
For joy of the shade!—
But Alice, dear Alice!
Glade, moorland, nor sky
Without you can content me—
And whither shall I?
—Sir Henry Taylor
Song
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings,
He takes your window for the east,
And to implore your light, he sings;
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.