This page has been validated.
LYRICAL POEMS.
51
THE CUCKOO.
UPON the plain an oak-tree stands,
A cuckoo there doth sing,
And still she mourns and still complains,
That ’tis not always Spring.
How in the fields could ripen corn,
If Spring were evermoe?
How apples on the orchard-trees,
Were Summer ne’er to go?
Or how the ears in garners freeze,
Were nought but Autumn known?
How woeful were it for the maid,
If always left alone!
E2
