Ah! there it falls, and now ’tis dead!
The shot went thro’ its pretty head,
And broke its shining wing?
How dull and dim its closing eyes;
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!
It was a lark, and in the sky,
In mornings fine, it mounted high,
To sing a pretty song;
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,