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Title: The Cuckoo
Author: George Borrow [
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Abiding an appointment made,
Upon the weed-grown steep I stayed,
One morning mild when May was new,
And fresh the down was fraught with dew.
The meads were flowering, bright the woods,
The branches yielding thousand buds.
My lips employed in song the while
On Morfydd of the merry smile.
'Twas then as round I cast my eye
With mighty wish the maid to spy;
Though, howsoe'er my sight I strained,
No glimpse of Morfydd I obtained.
I heard the cuckoo's voice arise,
Singing the song which most I prize.
To each Bard true most sweet I trow
His music on the mountain's brow.
Therefore, as called by courtesy,
I greeted him in poesy.
"Good day, dear Cuckoo, with thy strain
A herald thou from heaven's domain;
To us the tidings thou dost bear
Of summer, blissful season fair.
Of summer which to greenwood shade
Entices forth the Bard and maid;
Which decks with foliage dense the grove,
And through all nature breathes of love.
O, dear to me that note of thine,
It seasons love like choicest wine;
Whilst, doating fondness to chastise,
What cutting taunt in ‘Cuckoo' lies!
But, pretty bird, I pray declare
Where lingereth now my lady fair?"
"O, poet, what delusion great
Doth fill this year thy foolish pate?
'Tis harbouring a useless pain
One thought of her to entertain.
With all her store of winning charms,
She weds her to another's arms.
Believe me, when I say to thee
A mate of thine she may not be."
"Hush, hush, I'll not believe thy voice,
Dare not defame my bosom's choice.
That nymph, the fairest 'neath the sun,
Has sworn an oath, a solemn one;
She vowed by her baptismal rite,
Beneath the bough one blessed night,
Her hand my own enclasping hard,
To live and die with me, her Bard.
The minister that mystic night
Was Madog Benfras, matchless wight.
Her suitors all may vainly sigh,
How should she wed, whom wed have I?
'Tis false, O Bird, what thou dost state,
And waste of time with thee to prate.
Folly and drunkenness, 'tis plain,
Have got possession of thy brain.
Hence with thy news, and get thee cool,
Thou art, I fear, a very fool!"
"O, Dafydd, who the fool but thou,
Talking this guise beneath the bough?
Another husband chooses she,
Whose charms deceitful captured thee.
The Damsel of the neck of snow
Is now another's wife, I trow.
To love another's looks not well,
The Bow Bach owns the blooming belle."
"For what thou'st sung within the grove,
With malice filled, about my love,
May days of winter come with speed,
The summer and the sun recede;
Hoar frost upon the foliage fall,
The wood and branches withering all.
And thou with piercing cold be slain,
Thou horrid bird of hateful strain!"
[The end]
George Borrow's Poem: The cuckoo
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