THE PAITRICH OF BURNS. 35 
Mourn, ye wee sangsters of the wood ! 
Ye grouse that crop the heather bud ! 
Ye curlews calling tlirough a clud ! 
Ye whistling plo\'er! 
And mourn, ye whirring Paitrich brood, 
He's gane for ever ! 
And again, in his epistle to Lord Eankine — 
Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun ; 
And brought a Taitrich to the grun^ — 
A bonnie hen ; 
And as the twilight was begun 
Thought none wud ken. 
He is, however, mistaken, for 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 
The whole affair. 
And the nnlicensed sportsman has to pay the fee, "which he 
does, vowing to take out the price, and more, next year in 
feathered game. 
. As soon's the clocken-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begin to cry. 
Not always does the Scottish poet apply this name to 
our favourite game bird, as will be seen by the following 
simile : — 
As flies the Partridge from the brake 
On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, startling, half awake, 
Away affrighted springs. 
And this, too, is beautifully expressive of the shy, timid 
nature of the bird, ever hiding in the cover, and starting 
forth in great dismay and trepidation at the sound of an 
advancing footstep, be it of dog or man, rising, as the poet 
has well phrased it, 
On f ear-inspired wings. 
But fearful as the Partridge generally is, there are timers 
when the maternal instinct overcomes the timidity of its 
c 2 
