be thou not dismaied
For thou have herd the Cuckow erst than me,
For if I live it shall amendid be
The nexte Maie, if I be not afraied.
More recently Milton thus addresses the Nightingale:
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill,
Portend success in love.
Whether any traces of this popular belief yet linger in our rural districts, I do not know; but I can recall my childish days in the west of England (where there are no Nightingales), when I looked forward with implicit faith to the coming of the Cuckoo, to 'eat up the dirt', and make the Devonshire lanes passable for children's spring wanderings.
The song of the Cuckoo, I need scarcely remark, consists of but two notes, of which the upper is, I believe, invariably, E flat, the lower most frequently C natural, forming, however, not a perfect musical interval, but something between a minor and a major third. Occasionally two birds may be heard singing at once, one seemingly aiming at a minor, the other a major third; the effect is, of course, discordant. Sometimes the first note is pronounced two or three times, thus 'cuck-cuck-cuckoo', and I have heard it repeated rapidly many times in succession, so as to resemble the trilling note of the Nightingale, but in a lower key. The note of the nestling is a shrill plaintive chirp, which may best be imitated by twisting a glass stopper in a bottle. Even the human ear has no difficulty in understanding it as a cry for food, of which it is insatiable. Towards the end of June the Cuckoo, according to the old adage, 'alters its tune', which at first loses its musical character and soon ceases altogether. In July the old birds leave us, the males by themselves first, and the females not many days after; but the young birds remain until October.