The Woody Querristers.
When Birds could speak, and Women they
Had neither good nor bad to say;
The pritty Birds then fill'd with pain.
Did to each other thus complain.
To the Tune of, The Bird-catchers Delight.
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O H says the Cuckoo , loud and stout,
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I flye the Country round about:
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While other Birds my young ones feed,
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And I my self do stand in need.
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Then says the Sparrow on her nest,
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I lov'd a Lass but it was in jest:
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And ever since that self same thing,
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I made a vow I ne'r would sing.
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In comes the Robin , and thus he said,
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I lov'd once a well-favour'd Maid:
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Her Beauty kindled such a spark,
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That on my breast I bear the mark.
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The said the Lark upon the Grass,
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I lov'd once a well-favour'd Lass:
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But she would not hear her true love sing,
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Though he had a voice would please a King.
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Then said the Blackbird as she fled,
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I loved one but she is dead;
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And ever since my love I do lack,
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This is the cause I mourn in Black.
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Then said the bonny Nightingale ,
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Thus I must end my mournful tale,
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While others sing, I sit and mourn,
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Leaning my breast against a thorn.
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Oh! says the Water-wag-tail then,
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I ne'r shall be my self agen:
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I loved one, but could not prevail,
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And this is the cause that I wag my tail.
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Then said the pritty-colour'd Jay ,
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My dearest love is fled away,
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And in remembrance of my dear,
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A Feather of every sort I wear.
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Then said the Leather-winged Batt ,
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Mind but my tale, and i'le tell you what
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Is the cause that I do flye by night,
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Because I lost my hearts delight.
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Then said the Green-Bird as she flew,
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I loved one that proved untrue:
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And since she can no more be seen,
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Like a love-sick Maid I turn to green.
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Then did begin the Chattering Swallow ,
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My love she is fled, but I would not follow;
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And now upon the Chimney high,
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I sing forth my poor malady.
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Oh! says the Owl , my love is gone,
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That I so much did dote upon:
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I know not how my love to follow,
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But after her I hoop and hollow.
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Then says the Lapwing as she flies,
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I search the Meadows and the Skies:
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But cannot find my Love again.
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So about I flie in deadly pain.
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Then said the Thrush , I squeak and sing,
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Which doth to me no comfort bring,
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For oftentimes I at midnight,
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Record my love and hearts delight.
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The Canary-bird she then comes in,
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To tell her tale she doth begin;
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I am of my dear love bereft.
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So I have my own Country left.
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The Chafinch then begins to speak,
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For love, quoth she, my heart will break;
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I grieve so for my only dear,
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I sing but two months in the year.
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Then, quoth the Magpye , I was crost
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In love, and now my dear is lost;
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And wanting of my hearts delight,
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I mourn for him in black and white.
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Oh says the Rook , and eke the Crow ,
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The reason why in black we go,
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It is because we are forsook,
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Come pitty us poor Crow and Rook .
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The Bullfinch he was in a rage,
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And nothing could his wrath asswage
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So in the Woods he would not dwell,
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But spends his time in lonesome Cell.
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Thus have you heard the Birds complaint
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Taking delight in their restraint
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Let this to all a pattern be,
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For to delight in Constancy.
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