The little red lark is shaking his wings, 
Straight from the breast of his love he springs, 
Listen the lilt of the song he sings, 
All in the morning early, O. 

The sea is rocking a cradle, hark! 
To a hushing-song, and the fields are dark, 
And would I were there with the little red lark, 
All in the morning early, O. 

The beard of barley is old-man's-gray, 
All green and silver the new-mown hay, 
The dew from his wings he has shaken away, 
All in the morning early, O. 

The little red lark is high in the sky, 
[No]1 eagle soars where the lark may fly, 
Where are you going to, high, so high?  
All in the morning early, O. 

His wings and his feathers are sunrise-red,  
He hails the sun and his golden head:
Good-morrow, sun, you are long abed, 
All in the morning early, O.  

I would I were [where]2 the little red lark 
Up in the dawn like a rose-red spark,  
[Sheds the day on the fields so dark]3,
All in the morning early, O.