The partridge is a great favourite of the Armenian, who does not tire of inventing lyrics in its honour. Here is a specimen: The sun beats from the mountain's top, Pretty, pretty: The partridge comes from her nest; She was saluted by the flowers, She flew and came from the mountain's top. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge! When I hear the voice of the partridge I break my fast on the house-top: The partridge comes chirping And swinging from the mountain's side. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge! Thy nest is enamelled with flowers, With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily: Thy place is full of dew, Thou delightest in the fragrant odour. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge! Thy feathers are soft, Thy neck is long, thy beak little, The colour of thy wing is variegated: Thou art sweeter than the dove. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge! When the little partridge descends from the tree, And with his sweet voice chirps, He cheers all the world, He draws the heart from the sea of blood. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge. All the birds call thee blessed, They come with thee in flocks, They come around thee chirping: In truth there is not one like thee. Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! beautiful little partridge! Another song gives the piteous plaint of an unhappy partridge who was snared and eaten. "Like St Gregory, they let me down into a deep well; then they took me up and sat round a table, and they cut me into little pieces, like St James the Intercised." The crane, who, with the stork, brings the promise of summer on his wing, receives a warm welcome, and when the Armenian sees a crane in some foreign country he will say to him:-- Crane, whence dost thou come? I am the servant of thy voice. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Hasten not to thy flock; thou wilt arrive soon enough! Crane, hast thou not news from our country? I have left my possessions and vineyard and come hither. How often do I sigh; it seems that my soul is taken from me. Crane, stay a little, thy voice is in my soul. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? My God, I ask of thee grace and favour, the heart of the pilgrim is wounded, his lungs are consumed; the bread he eats is bitter, the water he drinks is tasteless. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Thou comest from Bagdad, and goest to the frontiers. I will write a little letter and give it to thee. God will be the witness over thee; thou wilt carry it and give it to my dear ones. I have put in my letter that I am here, that I have never even for a single day been happy. O, my dear ones, I am always anxious for you! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?