THE grouse that lives on the moorland wide

Is filled with a most ridiculous pride ;

He thinks that it all belongs to him

And every one else must obey his whim.

When the queer wee folk who live on the moors

Come joyfully leaping out of their doors

To frisk about on the warm sweet heather

Laughing and chattering all together,

He looks askance at their rollicking play

And calls to them in the angriest way:

'You're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack,

Go back, you rascally imps, go back!'

But little enough they heed his shout ;
Over the rocks they tumble about;
They chase each other over the ling;
They kick their heels in the heather and sing;

'Oho, Mr. Grouse, you'd best beware

Or some fine day, if you don't take care,

The witch who lives in the big brown bog

With a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog,

Will come a-capering over the fell

And put you under a horrible spell;

Your feathers will moult and your voice will crack*

Go back, you silly old bird, go back !'