There is hope in the time that is coming,
When the lambs will frolic on the plain,
Whilst the bees o’er the heather are humming,
Then the songsters will cheer us again.
For the pretty little birds from the edges,
The reeds for their nest will have riven;
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Then we’ll go to the banks of the river,
Through meadows that’s blooming in green,
Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r
O’er the fish as they sport in the stream:
Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting,
For the fruits of that labour he has striven,
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish,
The rose that’s unseen in the bud,
And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish,
Round the ferns in the depths of the wood:
Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy,
And the sweets that nature she has given,
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the merry little boys they will ramble,
So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,
Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble
Will be blown by the mild summer gale:
Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning
To the poor humble peasant will be given.
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.