The Cuckoo

The cuckoo she's a pretty bird, she sings as she flies
She bringeth us good tidings, she telleth us no lies
She sucketh white flowers to keep her voice clear
And everytime she singeth “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo”
Then the springtime draweth near

The cuckoo she's a pretty bird, no other is as she
She flits across the meadow and sings from every tree
She loves the summеr sunshine, she hates the wind and rain
And everytime she singeth “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo”
Then the springtime comes again