This text comes from A First Series of Hymns and Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Now the sun shines o'er the hill,
Now the morning breaketh clear,
Chanticleer with clarion shrill
Waketh all the farm-yard near.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows nursed by night retire,
And the peeping sunbeam now
Paints with gold the village-spire.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.
Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently meets the morning gale,
Lambkins now begin to crop
Daisies on the dewy vale.
Tell me, sisters, am I wrong?
Has not Morn a pretty song?
By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the glowing noontide heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines
Hanging o'er his grassy seat.
Cattle court the breezes bland
Where the streamlet wanders cool,
Or in languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.
Now the hill, the hedge, are green,
Now the warbler's throat's in tune
Blithesome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon.
Gentle sisters, what say you?
Does not Noon sing sweetly too?
O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free, her furrow'd task is done;
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.
Now the lonely owlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake,
And the blue mist slowly creeps
Curling on the silver lake
As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Freshly plays the Evening air,
Sweetly fall its shadows gray;
Even man forgets his care,
Thoughtless for the coming day.
Gentle sisters, of the three,
Give you not the prize to me?