The Cuckoo
Many versions of this song exist from Great Britain to the Appalachian Mountains in the U.S.
The Cuckoo
Folk Song
The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
She singeth as she flies;
She bringeth us good tidings,
She telleth us no lies.
She sucketh at white flowers
To make her throat so clear.
And when we hear her singing,
'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
The summer draweth near.
The cuckoo is a giddy bird,
No other is as she,
She flits across the meadow,
And sits in every tree.
A nest she never buildeth,
A vagrant she doth roam;
Her music is but sorrow,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
I nowhere have a home.
The cuckoo is a witty bird,
She cometh with the spring.
When autumn winds are blowing
She spreadeth wide her wing.
The winter she disdaineth,
She shuns the rain and snow.
With her I would be singing,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
And off with her I'd go.
Notes
Here's the version from "A Garland of Country Song" (1895) by Baring-Gould...
The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
She sings as she flies;
She bringeth good tidings,
She telleth no lies;
She sucketh sweet flowers
To keep her voice clear,
And when she sings Cuckoo,
The summer draweth near.
O meeting is a pleasure
And parting is a grief;
An inconstant lover
Is worse than a thief;
A thief can but rob me
Of all that I have,
But an inconstant lover,
Will bring me to the grave.
The grave it will recieve me
And bring me to dust.
An inconstant lover
No maiden can trust;
He'll court you, cajole you
Poor maids to decieve;
There is not one in twenty
A maiden can believe.
Come all you sweet maidens
Wherever you be,
Your hearts - do not hang them
On a sycamore tree.
The leaf it will wither,
The root will decay;
Alack! I'm foresaken
And wasting away.
Thanks!
