The woody queristers when birds could speak, and women they, had neither good nor ill to say? The pritty birds fill'd with pain, did to each other, thus complain. To the tune of, The bird-catchers delight. 1684-1686? Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2011-04 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). B06942 Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.8[581] 99887988 ocm99887988 183660

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. B06942) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 183660) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A5:2[451]) The woody queristers when birds could speak, and women they, had neither good nor ill to say? The pritty birds fill'd with pain, did to each other, thus complain. To the tune of, The bird-catchers delight. 1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. (woodcuts). Printed for I. Clarke, W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger, [London, : between 1684-1686?] Imprint suggested by Wing W3522B. Verse: "Oh! says the Cuckcow, loud and stout ..." Cf. Wing W3522B which has "querristers" in the title. Imperfect: trimmed affecting imprint. Reproduction of original in the British Library.

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 eng Ballads, English -- 17th century. 2020-09-21 Content of 'availability' element changed when EEBO Phase 2 texts came into the public domain 2008-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-12 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2010-01 Sampled and proofread 2010-01 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2010-04 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
The Woody Queriſters When Birds could ſpeak, and Women they, Had neither good nor ill to ſay? The pritty Birds fill'd with pain, Did to each other, thus Complain. To the Tune of, The Bird-Catchers Delight.

OH! ſays the Cuckcow, loud and ſtout, I flye the Conntry round about: While other Birds my young-ones feed And I my ſelf do ſtand in need. Then ſays the Sparrow on her neſt, I lov'd a Laſs but it was in jeſt And ever ſince that ſelf ſame thing, I made a vow I neer would ſing. In comes the Robin and thus he ſaid, I lov'd once a well favoured maid: Her beauty kindled ſuch a ſpark▪ That on my breaſt I bear the mark. Then ſaid the Lark upon the graſs, I lov'd once a well favour'd Laſs, But ſhe would not heare her true love ſing Though he had a voice would pleaſe a King Then ſaid the Blackbird as he fled, I loved one but ſhe is dead: And ever ſince my Love I do lack, This is the cauſe I mourn in Black. Then ſaid the bonny Nightingale. Thus I muſt end my mournfull tale: While others ſing, I sit and mourn, Leaning my breaſt againſt a thorn.

Gh! ſays the Water-wag-tail then, I ne'r ſhall be my ſelf again, I loved one, but could not prevail, And this is the cauſe I wag my tail. Then ſaid the pretty coloured Jay, My deareſt Love is fled away: And in remembrance of my dear, A Feather of every ſort I wear. Then ſaid the Leather-winged Batt, Mind but my tale, and i'le tell you what, Is the cauſe I do fly by night: Becauſe I loſt my hearts delight. Then ſaid the Green-Bird as ſhe flew, I loved one that prov'd untrue, And ſince ſhe can no more be ſeen, Like a Love-ſick made I turn ſo green, Then did begin the Chattering Swallow My Love ſhe is fled, but I would not follow And now upon the Chimney high▪ I ſing forth my poor mellody. Oh! ſays the Owl, my loue is gone, That I ſo much did dote upon: I know not how my love to follow, But after her I hoop and hollow. Then ſays the Lapwing, as ſhe flyes, I ſearch the Meadows and the Skies But cannot find my Love again, So about I fly in deadly pain. Then ſaid the Thruſh, I ſqueak and ſing Which doth to me no comfort bring. For oftentime I at midnight, Record my Love and hearts Delight. The Canary-Bird ſhe then comes in, To tell her tale ſhe doth begin: I am of my dear'ſt Love bereft, So I have my own Country left. The Chafinch then begins to ſqueak, For Love quoth he, my heart will break I grieve ſo for my only dear, I ſing but two mounths in a year. Then quoth the Magpye. I was croſt, In Love and now my Dear is loſt: And wanting of my hearts Delight, I mourn for him in Black and White. Oh! ſays the Rook and eke the Crow, The Reaſon why in Black we go: It is becauſe we are forſook, Come pitty us poor Crow and Rook. The Bulfinch he was in a rage. And nothing could his wrath aſſwage; So in the woods, he would not Dwell, But ſpend his time in loneſome Cell. Thus you do hear the Birds complaint, Taking Delight in their Reſtraint: Let this to all a pattern be, For to Delight in Conſtancy.