From out of its nest,
And the mother comes flying
In search of her fledgeling.
She twitters in anguish.
Alas! she can't find it.
The crusty old cuckoo
Awakes and bethinks him
To call to a neighbour:
Ten times he commences
And gets out of tune, 180
But he won't give it up....

Call, call, little cuckoo,
For all the young cornfields
Will shoot into ear soon,
And then it will choke you--
The ripe golden grain,
And your day will be ended![4]

From out the dark forest
Fly seven brown owls,
And on seven tall pine-trees 190
They settle themselves
To enjoy the disturbance.
They laugh--birds of night--
And their huge yellow eyes gleam
Like fourteen wax candles.
The raven--the wise one--
Sits perched on a tree
In the light of the fire,