The Cuckoo is a pretty bird she sings as she flies
She bringeth good tidings she telleth no lies
She sucketh white flowers
for to keep her voice clear
And she never sings cuckoo
till summer draweth near
As I once was a walking and talking one day
I met my own true love as he came that way
Though the meeting him was pleasure
though the courting was woe
For I've found him false hearted
he'd kiss me and then he'd go
I wish I was a scholar and could handle the pen
I'd 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