THE
Woody Queresters:
OR,
The BIRDS HARMONY.
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.
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OH! 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 myself 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 selfsame thing,
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I made a vow I ne'er would sing.
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In came 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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Then 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 myself 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'll tell you what
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Is the cause that I do flye by night,
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Because I lost my Heart's Delight.
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Then said the Green-bird as she flew,
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I loved one that prov'd 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 Heart's 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 Heart's 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 pity us poor Crow and Rook.
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The Bulfinch 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 lonesom cell.
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Thus you have 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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