O the cuckoo she's a pretty bird, She singeth as the flies, She bringeth good tidings, She telleth no lies. --- She sucketh withe flowers for to keep her voice clear, And the more she singeth cuckoo - The summer draweth near...

But do not forget the clock of CUCKOO:

I will kill that cuckoo!

'I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving.
Oh, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.
Sweet little red feet! Why should you die -
Why would you leave me, sweet dove! Why?
You lived alone on the forest-tree.
Why, pretty bird, could you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you withe peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?.