To this old song: Partridge lost his quill, there's no harm won't befall him. Partridge, whose winged fancy aspired to a high estate, lost a feather in his flight and won the pen of despondency. He finds in the breeze no buoyancy for his pennants to haul him: there's no harm won't befall him. He wished to soar to a high tower but found his plumage clipped, and, observing himself plucked, pines away in despair. If he cries out for succor, stoke the fire to forestall him: there's no harm won't befall him.