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The Cuckoo.
Evans, Printer, Long lane, London.
COME all you pretty fair maids, wherever you be,
And never fix your mind on a sailor so free,
For the leaves they will wither, and the root it will die,
O, I am forsaken, and don't know for why.
The Cuckoo is a fine bird, and she sings as she flies,
She brings us good tidings, she tells us no lies,
She sucks all the birds' eggs, to make her voice clear,
And never sings Cuckoo till the summer draws near.
Meeting is a pleasure, parting is a grief;
An inconstant lover is worse than a thief;
A thief can but rob you, and take all you have.
An inconstant lover will bring you to the grave!
O, the hours that I have passed in the arms of my dear,
Can never be thought of without shedding a tear;
It's the cause of my misery and the cause of my shame,
And solemn I have sworn true-love to maintain.
All hardships possible for him I could bear,
And at night, on my pillow, forget all my care;
All hardships possible, for him I could bear,
And at night, on my pillow, forget all my care.
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