Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee

Glad bird, I do bewail thee, Thy song it was so sweet That Earth looked up to hail thee Till wings grew to her feet. But, ah! thy mate is lying dead Among the new--mown hay, And a fowler comes to jail thee Where thou shalt pine away. Bright butterfly, I wail thee, So dainty was thy wing, So bravely didst regale thee On every honied thing. But thou art all too lightly clad For any month but May, And Autumn rains shall trail thee And wash thy paint away. Sweet childhood, I bewail thee. Thy smile it shifteth ever As the ship that thou dost sail thee Adown the running river. But ah! life's river runneth fast And forward lies the sea, And what shall then avail thee Thy laughter and thy glee? And youth, I most bewail thee, Thy purpose was so great, But the fools that did assail thee Were stronger than thy fate, And thy heart it was so ruddy red That every archer knew Where he might best impale thee And drive his arrows through.