A poem by John Hartley

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Just a word i' thi ear, -
Aw hooap we shall net disagree;
But aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year,
At tha seems a big humbug to me.

We know at tha brings us glad tidins ov Spring,
An for that art entitled to thanks;
But tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing,
An tha plays some detestable pranks.

Too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel,
Tha lives but a poor vagrant life;
An thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell,
Shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife.

Shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest,
An shirks what's her duty to do;
Noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast,
Ov this selfish, hard-hearted Cuckoo.

Some other poor burd mun attend to her young,
An work hard to find 'em wi' grubs,
An all her reward, is to find befooar long
At her foster child treeats her wi' snubs.

Tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind
'At ruffles thi feathers a bit,
Yo gather together an all i' one mind
Turn yor tails, - fly away, an forget.

Ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base,
They dooant care what comes or what gooas;
If they can just manage to live at ther ease,
Ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas,

Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met, -
Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part; -
An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet,
Tha'rt a humbug! - That's just what tha art.

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