THE WOUNDED HARE 1

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!

Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled 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.

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide
That life a mother only can bestow!

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's arm, and mourn thy hapless

fate.

1 Written at Ellisland after seeing a wounded hare limp past. It is appropriate to associate this and next three poems with the preceding two, to form a group of poems showing his deep and tender sympathy with all living creatures and even with flowers.

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:

But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain!

In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv❜let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;

Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,

Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

The house stands near the woods in which Burns sat, when Miss Alexander, who lived with her brother in this house, crossed the path near him. beauty so impressed him that he wrote the poem, "The Lass O' Ballochmyle."

Her

Near the place where Burns sat when he saw Miss Alexander, as she crossed near him. Her brother owned the estate. Burns immediately wrote "The Lass O' Ballochmyle."