O the cuckoo she’s a pretty bird, she singeth as she slies.
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 draws near.
As I was awalking and atalking one day,
I met my own true love, as he came my way.
Oh, to meet him was a pleasure, though courting was a woe,
for I found him falsehearted 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 that attends on their lies,
I would wish them have pity on the flower when it dies.