A morning in September in early early Spring
Above the lush green paddock the air borne skylark sing
Four hundred feet above the ground a small speck in the sky
He soars up to the cloud world to sing he has to fly.

Each time I hear a skylark it takes me far away
To far and colder Country and distant by gone day
The skylark sang his sweetest song in blooming month of May
Above the bracken bogland he piped his merry lay.

Each time I hear a skylark I see the rushy moor
And hear the horned sheep bleating on hillsides wild and poor
And each time I hear a skylark the tears are in my eyes
For flowering fields and valleys and misty Irish skies.

Not native to Australia though his home it is here
The voice of Gippsland skylark sweet music to my ear
You take this bird to Europe he would refuse to sing
He'd pine for wide green paddocks and Gippsland in the Spring.

His wife cloaked by a tuft of grass sits on her small grass nest
Four bean sized eggs of mottled pale kept warm beneath her breast
And the skylark's song destined to live her babes will take to wing
And o'er Cora Lynn paddocks their lark songs they will sing.

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