Oh, the cockash 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 the more she singeth, cuckoo, the somber draweth near. As I was a-walking and talking one day, I met my own true love as he came that way. Though the meeting was a pleasure, though the parting was a woe, For I found him false-hearted, he'd kiss me and then he'd go. I wish I were a scholar and could handle the pen. I'd write to my lover and to all loving men. I would tell them of the grief and woe that it had on their lives. I would wish that I'd have pity on the flower when it dies. I wish I were a scholar and could handle the pen. I'd write to my lover and to all loving men. I would tell them of the grief and woe that it had on their lives. I would wish that I'd have pity on the flower when it dies. As I was a-walking and talking one day, I met my own true love as he came that way. Though the meeting was a pleasure, though the parting was a woe, For I found him false-hearted, he'd kiss me and then he'd go. Though the cuckoo she's 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 the more she singeth, cuckoo, the summer draweth near. And the more she singeth, cuckoo, the summer draweth near. And the more she singeth, cuckoo, the summer draweth near.