University of Virginia Library

A Cuckoo and a Nightingale
Once met by chance in Cowslip Vale,
And after nodding each to each
Sat down together on a beech,
Both very willing to declare
They had an afternoon to spare.

“Please,” said the Nightingale, “explain
The shortness of your mellow strain,
Which, as it seems (he shook his head)
Is over sooner than it's said—
Though that's a phrase you might have heard
More fitly from an Irish bird.
But what I want to ask is, Why
A longer strain refuse to try?
Imagination can't be dead
In such a very well-shaped head;
And if you will, I'm sure you can
Improve upon this tiresome plan.
I hear with something like dismay
What Poets call your roundelay,
Though this and other sillier words
Are laughing-stocks for clever birds.
But tell me, Cuckoo, why you say
So little on your woodland way,
Instead of making us a speech
Worth hearing from an oak or beech.
Does pride, or carelessness, allow?
Or are you hampered by a vow
To give the world so short a cry
From tousled March to gay July?
I often think you have forgot
The solo verses—have you not?—
And kept as treasure in your heart
Only the vexing chorus part.
If I should be as curt as you,
Whatever would the lovers do?
Or those who run a special train,
That city-folk shall hear my strain
Where rose and honeysuckle rest
In scent and starshine, breast to breast?”

Just here the Cuckoo raised his voice
To make the hills and woods rejoice.
(If they rejoice, as Poets tell,
They hide their feelings very well.)

“Before,” he added, “I permit
Your beak to illustrate your wit,
I ought to tell you I aspire
To put my knowledge out on hire.
A minute grant me, to enlarge
On aim and method; as to charge,
I price all trills and minor thirds
To suit the pockets of the birds.
My wish it is to make the song
Of every singer wide and strong,
That birds may not with justice be
Accused of such monotony
As, for example, lives in you,
And in the careless Pigeon too.
If you will come three times a day
For half an hour, I think you'll say
The time has been most wisely spent
In gaining vocal ornament.
My references are very good
From Crinkle Hill and Birdsey Wood:
Please ask the Owl to let you hear
The shake he learned from me last year.
Let Merit reap! Let Genius thrive!
Support the Ablest Bird alive!
That, when you've passed the time of eggs,
Grown bald, and tottery on your legs,
The knowledge that you did not fail
An Academic Nightingale,
Who wished to put, for cheerless day,
A nest-egg carefully away
Where weeds and grasses, rank by rank,
Conceal his private Savings'-Bank,
May serve you better than a cup
Of Grannie Cuckoo's Pick-me-up.
I know the Thrush at Lilac Tower
Charges a penny for an hour,
Though how he finds this rate of pay
Keeps off the Workhouse, who can say?
'Tis foolish of this bird to try
To undersell me on the sly,
And give to pupils small or large
His lessons nearly free of charge;
My terms—the Thrush is bound to smash!—
Are seven a shilling, ready cash.”

The Cuckoo raised his weary head,
Stared at the Nightingale, and said,
“Had I but known you wished to preach,
Not this or any other beech
Had found you sitting next to me
This afternoon at half-past three.
But since the question of my voice—
Well known to make the hills rejoice—
(I must admit that if they did,
Their feelings were completely hid)
Has risen in this casual way,
I've listened while you said your say,
In hope to have, when you had rung
The changes on the English tongue,
A chance to put my point of view
Politely, but with force, to you.
Don't fidget, please! for while you spoke
I kept as steady as an oak,
And only once, when most oppressed,
A “Cuckoo” gave to clear my chest.
Now let me tell you how it makes
My temper bubble when your shakes
Prevent me in the foliage deep
From getting half my beauty-sleep.
The sense of honour must be slight
That lets you carry on at night
As if you thought the very stars
Were glad to hear loquacious bars
Of music of the fatal kind
Is always pleased to lag behind.
I hate those birds, I frankly say,
That will not speak their thoughts by day,
And, having spoken, will not pop
Their heads beneath their wings, and stop.
You love, undone by gift of gab,
Your household chronicles to blab,
Which bore the Finches till they long
For men to fright you from your song.
Give me the bird that knows his mind,
And sings it when the sun is kind!
Give me that gentlemanly bird
Not eager for the final word!
Not one in whom a twisted sense
Of honour causes keen offence
To folk who have a perfect right,
When prayers are said, to sleep at night.
If you were twenty times more brief,
'Twould prove a valuable relief
To birds who'd give me any sum
To teach you how at last to come
From all those agitated squeaks
To follow economic beaks.
With more of sense, and less of tongue,
You'd learn the art of keeping young
By putting out the eggs to hatch
And never sharing what you catch,
Instead of toiling to produce
A cottage for your private use.
Since Mistress Pipit chirps with glee
While bringing up a son for me,
I should not like, upon my word,
To disappoint the little bird;
Besides, what folly to invest
Your total in a single nest!
A Cuckoo's brain is cool and brisk;
It counts the cost, divides the risk,
And never snubs a family
That offers board and lodging free.
If you would learn to imitate
The wisdom of a Cuckoo's pate,
Instead of squeaking in a thorn
From early eve till early morn,
And teaching silly Owls to make
The night more hideous with a shake,
You'd cease to be a scourge, and find
Yourself a credit to your kind.”

Just here the Nightingale assumed
The look of one by deafness doomed,
As if the Cuckoo were a bird
Too grossly vulgar to be heard.
This done, so hard he wagged his bill,
The Cuckoo felt extremely ill,
And left the wounded Nightingale
To tire his beak in Cowslip Vale.

'Tis only fair for me to add
That if he made the valley glad
By pouring out so very long
The rapid river of his song,
Then valleys easily conceal
The joy the Poets say they feel.