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 [bad word] 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.