The peasant girl, her feet all bare,

With her rustic grace, has a noble air.

She's queen of the stubble-field and she,

In mind, is free as the lark is free.

Her thought, above all meaner things,

Is soaring with the lark that sings.

No hampered child of the city streets,

Who bows his head whomsoe'er he meets,

Who toils for a pittance with little rest,

But should envy the freedom in this breast.

She's the child of nature; vice does not lure;

She's clothed upon with a life that's pure.

The wholesomeness of her atmosphere

Does more for man than his logic drear.

Who delves in books' philosophic lore,

Sees nature's problems—but little more.

'Tis God's own child who has eyes to see

What is closed to the eye of philosophy.

The artist who dabbles with color and brush

Sees but the reflection of nature's flush.

The skilled musician knows not pure tone;

He hears but the resonance of his own.

'Tis the peasant girl, as she hurries along,

Who hears the lark's good morning song.

She hears it with gladness; her heart is gay;

All nature greets her in festal array.

The lark makes her world a world of song

His notes in her heart sing her whole life long.

She's the true musician, artist and seer;

She looks upon nature with vision clear.

The lark brings her day without shade or sorrow,

And crowns each day with a sweet tomorrow.

He gives a joy only nature can,

A boon sent down from heaven to man.

O little lark, sing on! sing on!

The country dark new life will don.