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.
'Tis merry morn, the sun has shed
His light upon the mountain head;
The golden dews are sparkling now,
On heath and hill, on flower and bough.
And many a happy song is heard
From ev'ry gay rejoicing bird
But never more alas, shall I,
Soar up and sing in yonder sky.
Thro' these harsh wires I view in vain
The ray that once awoke my strain;
A prisoner here, I fret and pine,
My useless wings their strength decline.
Sad is my fate, to see the stars
Pass one by one before my bars,
And know when dawn returneth, I
No more may sing in yonder sky.
Oh, barbarous you, who still can bear
This mournful doom to bid me share;
To see me droop and sadden on
With wishful eye from dawn to dawn;
Beating my little breast in woe
'Gainst these dread wires that vex me so,
And my glad passage still deny,
To soar and sing in yonder sky.
Oh, let me fly, fly up once more:
How would my wing delighted soar!
What rapture would my song declare,
Pour'd out upon the sunny air!
Oh, set me free! for here in vain
I try to breathe one gladsome strain;
In this dark den I pine, I die;
Oh, let me flee to yonder sky!