Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you'll be poor,
The storm is quite likely to last;
The owl and the crow, are shelter'd below,
But you are expos'd to the blast!
The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep,
My footsteps are feeble and slow,
O lend me your wings, ye dear little things,
To carry me over the snow!
Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run,
Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails;
No danger is near, you've nothing to fear,
The poacher is down in the dales.
The wind whistle's woe, through the valley below,
To the birds that are down in the wood;
You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat,
To scatter their feathers and blood.
If you'll be content, till the storm shall be spent,
And suffer no envy or strife;
No doubt but you may, on some future day,
Get fat, and escape with your life!
But if you encroach, or chance to approach,
The web-footed classes domain;
If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way,
A thousand to one but you're slain!