The Gipsy and the Cuckoo

Tell me, brother, what's a cuckoo, but a roguish chaffing bird?
Not a nest's his own, no bough-rest's his own, and he's never man's good word,
But his call is musical and rings pleasant on the ear.
And the spring would scarce be spring
If the cuckoo did not sing
In the leafy months o' the year.

Tell me, brother, what's a gipsy, but a roguish chaffing chap?
Not a cot's his own, not a man would groan
For a gipsy's worst mishap,
But his tent looks quaint when bent
On the sidesward of a lane,
And you'd deem the rain more dreary
And the long white road more weary
If we never came again.

Would your May days seem more fair
Were we chals deep read in books,
Were we cuckoos cawing rooks,
All the world cathedral closes,
Where the very sunlight dozes
Were the sounds all organ pealing, psalm and song and prayer?