The Cuckoo - Pentangle

Oh, 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 night she sings her «cuckoo» the summer 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 courting 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 roving men

I would tell them of the grief and woe that attend all their lies

I would wish them 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 roving men

I would tell them of the grief and woe that attend all their lies

I would wish them 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 courting was a woe

For I found him false-hearted;

he’d kiss me, and then he’d go

Oh, 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 night she sings her «cuckoo» the summer draweth near

And the night she sings her «cuckoo» the summer draweth near