Perhaps goddard was derived from “godward:” we had looking godward, and thinking godward, and perhaps drinking godward, for a benediction might have been usual at a christening or solemn merry-making; and from thence godward drinking might have come to the godward cup, and so the goddard.
The Cuckoo.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—If the following “Address to the Cuckoo,” from my work on birds, should suit the pages of the Every-Day Book, it is quite at your service.
Of the cuckoo, I would just observe, that I do not think, notwithstanding all that Dr. Jenner has written concerning it, its natural history is by any means fully developed. I have had some opportunities of observing the habits of this very singular bird, and in me there is room for believing that, even when at maturity, it is sometimes, if not frequently, fed by other birds. It is very often attended by one, two, or even more, small birds, during its flight, for what purpose is not, I believe, at present known. The “wry-neck,” junx torquilla, called in some provinces the “cuckoo’s maiden,” is said to be one of these. Perhaps it may be novel information to your readers to be told, that there is a bird in the United States of America, called “Cowpen,” emberiza pecoris, by Wilson, which lays her eggs in other bird’s nests, in a similar way to the cuckoo in this country: the “cowpen” is, however, a much smaller bird than the cuckoo.
I am, &c.
James Jennings.
Dalby-terrace, City-road,
August 28, 1826.
To the Cuckoo.
Thou monotonous bird! whom we ne’er wish away,
Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of May
Thy advent reminds us of all that is sweet,
Which nature, benignant, now lays at our feet;
Sweet flowers—sweet meadows—sweet birds and their loves;
Sweet sunshiny mornings, and sweet shady groves;
Sweet smiles of the maiden—sweet looks of the youth,
And sweet asseverations, too, prompted by truth;
Sweet promise of plenty throughout the rich vale;
And sweet the bees’ humming in meadow and vale;
Of the summer’s approach—of the presence of spring,
For ever, sweet cuckoo! continue to sing.
Oh, who then, dear bird! could e’er wish thee away,
Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of May