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EBBA 33432

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
Ballad XSLT Template
Woody Queresters:
When Birds could speak, & Women they
Had neither good nor bad to say,
The pretty Birds then fill'd with pain,
Did to each other thus complain:
To the Tune of, The Bird-catcher's Delight, etc.

OH! says the Cuckoo, loud and stout,
I flye the Country round about,
While other Birds my young ones feed,
And I myself do stand in need.

Then says the Sparrow, on her nest,
I lov'd a Lass but it was in jest;
And ever since that selfsame thing,
I made a vow I ne'er would sing.

In came the Robin, and thus he said,
I lov'd once a well-favour'd Maid;

Her beauty kindled such a spark,
That on my breast I bear the mark.

Then said the Lark upon the grass,
I lov'd once a well-favour'd Lass;
But she would not hear her true Love sing,
Though he had a voice would please a King.

Then said the Blackbird as she fled,
I loved one but she is dead;
And ever since my Love I do lack,
This is the cause I mourn in black.

Then said the bonny Nightingale,
Thus I must end my mournful tale,
While others sing, I sit and mourn,
Leaning my breast against a thorn.

Oh! says the Water-wag-tail then,
I ne'r shall be myself agen;
I loved one, but could not prevail,
And this is the cause that I wag my tail.

Then said the pritty-colour'd Jay,
My dearest Love is fled away,
And in remembrance of my Dear,
A feather of every sort I wear.

Then said the leather-winged Batt,
Mind but my tale, and i'll tell you what
Is the cause that I do flye by night,
Because I lost my Heart's Delight.

Then said the Green-bird as she flew,
I loved one that prov'd untrue;
And since she can no more be seen,
Like a love-sick Maid I turn to green.

Then did begin the chattering Swallow,
My Love she is fled, but I would not follow,
And now upon the chimney high,
I sing forth my poor malady.

Oh! says the Owl, my Love is gone,
That I so much did dote upon:
I know not how my Love to follow,
But after her I hoop and hollow.

Then says the Lapwing as she flies,
I search the meadows and the skies,
But cannot find my Love again,
So about I flie in deadly pain.

Then said the Thrush, I squeak and sing,
Which doth to me no comfort bring,
For oftentimes I at midnight
Record my Love and Heart's Delight.

The Canary-bird she then comes in,
To tell her tale she doth begin;

I am of my dear Love bereft,
So I have my own Country left.

The Chafinch then begins to speak,
For love, quoth she, my heart will break;
I grieve so for my only Dear,
I sing but two months in the year.

Then quoth the Magpye, I was crost
In love, and now my Dear is lost;
And wanting of my Heart's Delight,
I mourn for him in black and white.

Oh! says the Rook, and eke the Crow,
The reason why in black we go,
It is because we are forsook,
Come pity us poor Crow and Rook.

The Bulfinch he was in a rage,
And nothing could his wrath asswage,
So in the woods he would not dwell,
But spends his time in lonesom cell.

Thus you have heard the Birds complaint,
Taking delight in their restraint;
Let this to all a Pattern be
For to delight in Constancy.

Printed by and for W.O. and sold by the Book
sellers of Pye-corner and London-bridge.

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