Alas, the cuckoo who was wont to sing for us — what wicked hour has now snatched you from your own? Alas, cuckoo, cuckoo, in what region have I lost you? That day was unhappy for us. Let every kind of men everywhere bewail the cuckoo: lost is the cuckoo — alas, behold, my cuckoo perishes! Let not the cuckoo perish; he will come back in springtime, and coming will stir up joyful songs for us. Who knows whether he will come? I fear he is drowned in the waves, seized by the whirlpools and slain by the waters. Woe is me, if Bacchus has plunged the cuckoo into the waves, who carries off young men in his pestilent whirlpool. If he lives, let him return and hasten back to his kindly nests, and let not the raven tear the cuckoo with its savage talon. Alas, who, O cuckoo, snatches you, behold, from your father's nest? Alas, he has snatched, he has snatched — I know not if you will come.
If you care for songs, cuckoo, behold, come swiftly; behold, come, I pray, behold, come swiftly. Do not delay, I pray, cuckoo, while you still can run; your own youth Daphnis longs to have you. The time of spring is here, cuckoo: only break off your slumber; the elder too, and father Menalcas, desires you. Behold, our young oxen are mowing the meadows of books; only the cuckoo is absent — who, I ask, is feeding him? Alas, Bacchus feeds him ill, I think — that impious one who longs to overturn all good hearts to evil. Bewail the cuckoo now, now bewail the cuckoo, all of you: he has withdrawn rejoicing, but weeping he returns, I suppose. Yet I choose that we may have that cuckoo weeping, and that we may lament together with the cuckoo alike.
Bewail your misfortunes with tears, illustrious boy, bewail them, and my whole inward parts bewail your misfortunes. If no hard flint begot you, bewail, we beg; remembering, you perhaps can bewail your very self. The sweet love of a son compels a parent to weep, when the son is suddenly snatched from his embrace. When a brother loses his beloved blood-brother, what should he do but the same, and forever weep himself? Three we once were, whom one spirit joined; now scarcely two together — that third one has fled. Alas, he flees, he flees; wherefore now a bitter lament remains for us, for our dear cuckoo departs. Let us send songs after him, songs of mourning; songs perhaps, I think, may lead the cuckoo back. May you ever be happy, wherever you withdraw; be mindful of us too — forever and everywhere, farewell.