The cuckoo

Oh the cuckoo she's a pretty bird
She singeth 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 a-talking one day
I met my own true love
As he came that way
Oh to meet him was a pleasure
Though the 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 their lies
I would wish them have pity
On the flower when it dies.

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