The lark in the morning

The lark in the morning,
She rises of her nest.
And she goes off in the air
With the dew all on her breast.

And like the jolly ploughboy
She whistles and she sings.
She goes home in the evening
With the dew all on her wings.

And as I was a-walking,
One morning in the spring,
Then I met a pretty maiden,
So sweetly she did sing.

And as we were a-walking,
These words she did say:
"There is no life like the ploughboy's
In the merry month of May".