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The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair,

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Allouette

Published by Webmaster on 07/26/2003 (4025 reads)
Singing larks I saw for sale - (Ah! the pain of it)

Singing larks I saw for sale -
(Ah! the pain of it)
Plucked and ready to impale
On a roasting spit;
Happy larks that summer-long
Stormed the radiant sky,
Adoration in their song . . .
Packed to make a pie.

Hark! from springs of joy unseen
Spray their jewelled notes.
Tangle them in nets of green,
Twist their lyric throats;
Clip their wings and string them tiht,
Stab them with a skewer,
All to tempt the apptite
Of the epicure.

Shade of Shelley! Come nt nigh
this accursèd spot,
Where for sixpence on can buy
Skylarks for the pot;
Dante, paint a blacker hell,
Plunge in deeper darks
Wretches who can slay and sell
Sunny-hearted larks.

You who eat, you are the worst:
By internal pains,
May you ever be accurst
Who pluck these poor remains.
But for you wingèd joy would sour
To heaven from the sod:
In ecstasy a lark would pour


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