Oh,
the cuckoo,
she's a pretty bird,
she sings as she flies.
She bringeth good tidings, she telleth no lies.
She sucketh white flowers for to keep her voice clear,
and the more she singeth, cuckoo, the summer
draweth near.
As I was a-walking and talking one day,
I met my own true love as he came that way.
Though the
meeting was a pleasure, though
the
parting was a woe,
though I found him false-hearted,
he'd kiss me and then he'd
blow.
I
wish I were a scholar and could handle the pen.
I'd write to my lover and to all
roving men.
I would tell them of the grief and woe that
attend on their lives.
I would wish they would have pity on the
flower when it dies.
As I was a-walking and talking one day,
I met my own true love as he came that way.
Though the
meeting was a pleasure, though the parting
was a woe,
though I found him false-hearted,
he'd kiss me and then he'd blow.
Oh, the cuckoo,
she's a pretty bird, she sings as she flies.
She bringeth good tidings, she telleth no lies.