Oh the cuckoo she's a pretty bird She singeth as she flies she does bring 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 a-talking one day I met my own true love As he came that way Oh to meet him was a pleasure though courting was a woe for I found him false hearted he would kiss me and go
I wish I were a scholar And could handle the pen I would write to my lover and to all roving men I would tell them of the grief and woe that attend on the lies I would want them to have pity on the flower when it dies.
