A Cornish Folk-song

Now, of all the birds that keep the tree,
Which is the wittiest fowl ?
Oh, the Cuckoo — the Cuckoo's the one ! — for he
Is wiser than the owl !

He dresses his wife in her Sunday's best,
And they never have rent to pay ;
For she folds her feathers in a neighbour's nest,
And thither she goes to lay !

He winked with his eye, and he buttoned his purse.
When the breeding time began ;
For he'd put his children out to nurse
In the house of another man !

Then his child, though born in a stranger's bed,
Is his own true father's son ;
For he gobbles the lawful children's bread,
And he starves them one by one !

So, of all the birds that keep the tree,
This is the wittiest fowl !
Oh, the Cuckoo — the Cuckoo's the one ! — for he
Is wiser than the owl !