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Printed without attribution, c.1825.

Lyrics: Alan Cunningham

Awake my love, ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim grey;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Until green Tetworth's woodlands shake.

'Tis sweet my love, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,
To witness heaven, bush and brake,
Instinct with soul and song awake.
The lark's song drops, now loud, now hush;
The goldspink answers from the bush,
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Calls from the misty mountain top.

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Awake my love, ere morning's ray


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