The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT
I
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
II
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,The bitter little that of life remains!
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
III
Seek, manglèd wretch, some place of wonted rest,No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
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IV
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, waitThe sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |