The long protracted rigor of the year
Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,
As instinct prompts; self-buried there they die.
And Burns, with true poetic sympathy for the sufferings of all created things, while listening to the stormy terrors of a winter’s night, thus apostrophizes the feathered songsters of the grove: —
Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the merry months o’ spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing —
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,