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XX. Of the Cuckow.
Thou Booby, sayst thou nothing but Cuckow?
The Robin and the Wren can thee out do.
They to us play thorow their little throats,
Not one, but sundry pretty taking Notes.
But thou hast Fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our Eggs, and sing Cuckow.
Thy notes do not First welcome in our Spring,
Nor dost thou it's first Tokens to us bring.
Birds less then thee by far, like Prophets, do
Tell us 'tis coming, tho not by Cuckow.
Nor dost thou Summer have away with thee,
Though thou a yauling, bauling Cuckow be.
When thou dost cease among us to appear,
Then doth our Harvest bravely crown our year.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our Eggs, and sing Cuckow.
Since Cuckows forward not our early Spring,
Nor help with notes to bring our Harvest in:
And since while here, she only makes a noise,
So pleasing unto none as Girls and Boys;
The Formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our Eggs and sing Cuckow.