The cuckoo is a pretty bird, she sings as she flies
She brings us glad tidings, and she tells us no lies
She suckth on sweet flowers to keep her throttle clear
And every time she singth
Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo
The summer drawth near.
The Cuckoo is a giddy bird no others is as she
That flits across the meadow that sings in every tree
Her nest she never buildth a vagrant she doth roam
Her music is a tearful
Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo
I nowhere have a home.
The cuckoo is a witty bird arriving with the spring
When summer sun is a waning she spreadth wide her wing
She flies approaching winter
She hates the rain and snow
Like her I would be singing
Cuckoo, Cuckoo, Cuckoo
And off with her I would go.
As melodias inglesas tradicionais vivem cheias de campos verdes, de vento, de chuva, de flores silvestres, castelos, amantes e passaritos. O contra-tenor Alfred Deller respira como o vento e as aves.
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