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The Cuckoo is a pretty bird, she sings as she flies. |
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She bringeth good tidings, she telleth no lies |
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She sucketh white flowers for to keep her voice clear |
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And she never sings "cuckoo" till summer draweth near |
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As I once was a-walking and talking one day |
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I met my own true love as he came that way |
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Though the meeting him was pleasure, though the courting was woe |
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For I've found him false hearted, he'd kiss me, and then he'd go. |
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I wish I was a scholar and could handle the pen. |
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I'd write to my lover and to all roving men |
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I would tell them of the grief and woe that attend on their lies |
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I would wish them have pity on the flower, when it dies |
