The cuckoo, she's a pretty bird
She singeth as she flies
She brings us glad tidings
She tells us no lies
She s**s on small white flowers
To make her sweet voice clear
And the more she crieth cuckoo
The summer draweth near
I wish I were a scholar
And could handle the pen
I'd write to all lovers
And to all wondering men
I'd tell them of the cares and woes
That descend upon our lives
And I'd tell them to have pity
On the flower when it dies