O, Cuckoo thou art unseen,
My crow, I well see, know;
You sing when spring is in,
My crow will always caw.

Cuckoo, you have a black skin,
You really are an unholy sin;
You leave the babies just born,
My crow treats them as her own.

My crow, you also black skinned
But you are straight, have seen;
Like a stone thrown to the sky,
You fly low, and you fly high.

O cuckoo, you blithe? I say no,
O new comer! when warm you show;
I hear thee, but cannot rejoice,
My all weather crow is my choice.