The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
She singeth as she flies;
She bringeth us good tidings,
She telleth us no lies;

She sucketh all sweet flowers
To keep her throttle clear,
And ev'ry time she singeth
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !
The summer draweth near.


The cuckoo is a giddy bird,
No other is as she,
That flits across the meadow,
That sings in every tree.

A nest she never buildeth,
A vagrant she doth roam;
Her music is but tearful -
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !
'I nowhere have a home.'


The cuckoo is a witty bird,
Arriving with the spring.
When summer suns are waning
She spreadeth wide her wing,

She flies th'approaching winter
She hates the rain and snow;
Like her, I would be singing
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !
And off with her I'd go.


The cuckoo is a merry bird,
She sings as she flies;
She brings us good tidings,
And tells us no lies.

She sucks little birds' eggs
To make her voice clear,
That she may sing Cuckoo !
Three months in the year.