My partridge, wand'rer from the hills forlorn,
Thy house, light-woven of the willow-bough
No more, thou patient one, shall know thee now;
And in the radiance of the bright-eyed morn
Shalt stretch and stir thy sun-kissed wings no more.
A cat struck off thy head--but all the rest
From out the glutton's envious grasp I tore!
Now may the earth lie heavy--so 'twere best--
Upon thee, and not lightly, so that she
May ne'er drag forth these poor remains of thee.