264 BIRDS OF THE WEST OF SCOTLAND. 



cealment. The following original lines, taken from the " poets' 

 corner " of a country newspaper, though somewhat invective in 

 their style, fairly express the feeling still prevalent in the minds 

 of some of the shepherds and others now living near the scenes of 

 by-gone persecution and bloodshed: 



TO THE PEESWEEP. 



Thou idle, ill-conditioned bird, 



At sight o' men most strangely stirr'd ! 



Was ever passion as absurd 



Yet hatch' d in breast ? 

 Can body g'ye a pleasant word ? 



Thou waur than beast! 



What though ye're ruff 'd wi' bonny black, 

 Wi' glancing grey out owre your back, 

 And wame and wings soft linings tak' 



The hues o' snaw, 

 Your idle, endless, senseless clack, 



Just mars it a'. 



'Tween herds and you there's deadly feud; 

 He breaks your eggs and skails your brood, 

 And waur than grudging ye a rood 



O' skrunty heather 

 He'd pook ye bare, frae tail to hood, 



To the last feather. 



He minds what Scotland greets for yet, 

 When helpless Hill Folk, hard beset, 

 Could naewhere but in muirlands get 



A night's safe quarters, 

 Ye brocht the troopers on them het, 



And made them martyrs. 



O sorra on your wicked din, 



And shame on a' your kith and kin! 



And though there's naething 'neath the skin 



That's fit for pot, 

 Wad ony body ca't a sin 



To wuss ye shot ? 



