190 THE PTARMIGAN-GROUSE. 



I delight to sail 



In the icy gale ; 



But the gentle breeze of the balmy spring 

 Would weaken the force of my snowy wing. 



Where the mountains rise 



To the azure skies, 

 Amid the pure ether the ptarmigan flies. 



Tho' the birds that feed 



In the grove or mead, 



May rejoice in the range of their lower flight; 

 Yet the snowy crags of the Alpine height, 



And the mountain air, 



So free and rare, 

 I would not exchange for their valleys fair. 



Oh ! bid me not roam 



From my mountain home ; 

 The rich harvests that load the fertile plain, 

 With the luscious fruits and the golden grain, 



Are less to my mind 



Than the berries I find, 

 Waving on high in the keen mountain wind. 



'Mid eternal snows 



I love to repose ; 



I build not my nest in the shelter'd vale, 

 For my wing would flag in the southern gale. 



To the Alpine height 



I take my flight, 

 ' And there I dwell in a world of light. 



