A POEM. 89 



The table on arrival ; but won't need 



This care when August's past then pack in reed. 



The Ptarmigan, the smallest of this class, 

 Remiss I might be call'd, were I to pass : 

 To Scotland's northern mountains the rough weather 

 Drives them in flocks, from th' Arctic Region thither; 

 But 'tis a bird the London Shot will see 

 Seldom on wing, for when they're there, he'll be 

 Far from these wilds, seeking a nobler game- 

 Woodcock, or pheasant, better known to fame. 

 A trifle larger than a pigeon these 

 Emigrants last are of this species ; 

 Their summer plumage is a palish brown, 

 Mottled with dusky spots, their neck and crown 

 With bars of black, and rust, and white, are mark'd; 

 Their wings and belly, 'tis to be remark'd, 

 Are always white the twelvemonth through : 

 They moult these plumes in winter, when the new 



