Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, May 18th, 1895 (Illustrated)

ODE TO A (LONDON) "LARK."

(Some Way after Quisquis.)

Oh, "lark," which all the "Comiques" sing,
And every drunken rowdy pup, too;
Sure you're a vicious, vulgar thing
As ever toper swigged a cup to.
Hints of the boozy and the blue
Surround you; sodden brains you soften;
Yet rhymsters make a song of you,
And rowdies sing it—far too often.
The aim of every loose-lipped lout
Appears to be to "lark" divinely;
When from his haunts he gets chucked out,
He deems his "spree" has ended finely.
He tracks the "lark"—aye, "like a bird,"
Upon the turf, among its "daisies";
But, by sweet Shelley, 'tis absurd,
Foul bird of prey, to pipe your praises!