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Thomas Arne
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The glitt'ring sun (The Morning)
The glittering sun begins to rise
On yonder hill, and paints the skies,
The glittering sun begins to rise, to rise
On yonder hill, and paints the skies.
The lark his warbling mattin sings.
The lark, the lark his warbling mattin sings.
The lark his warbling matin sings, sings, sings,
His warbling mattin sings.
Each flow'r, each flow'r in all it's beauty springs.
Each flow'r, each flow'r in all it's beauty springs.
The village up, the shepherd tries his pipe,
And to the woodland hies.
The village up, the shepherd tries his pipe,
And to the woodland hies.
Oh! that on the enamel'd green,
My Delia, lovely maid, were seen,
Fresher than the roses bloom,
Sweeter than the mead's perfume,
Sweeter than the mead's perfume.
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Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away,
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some lone turtle his lost love deplores,
And with shrill echoes fill the sounding shores,
So I, like him, Abandon'd and forlorn,
With ceaseless plaints my absent Delia mourn,
My absent Delia mourn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along,
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,
The winds to blow, the wavering woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountain to the thirsty swain,
Nor balmy sleep to lab'rers spent with pain,
Nor show'rs to larks, nor sunshine to the bee,
Are half so pleasing as thy sight to me, so pleasing,
Nor show'rs to larks, nor sunshine to the bee,
Are half, are half so pleasing
As thy sight to me, so pleasing as thy sight to me.
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