The Cuckoo (broadside)
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.