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But truce with abstraction, and truce with the

Muse,

Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, sir, ne'er deign to peruse:

Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,

Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels ? My much-honoured Patron, believe your poor Poet,

Your courage much more than your prudence you shew it.

In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle,

He'll have them by fair trade, if not he will smuggle;

Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G- he would steal 'em!

Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em :

It is not, out-do him

the task is, out-thieve

him!]

4th April, 1789.

ON A WOUNDED HARE.

"One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in the fields, sowing some grass-seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young ones."— Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 4th May, 1789.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye!
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains :
No more the thickening brakes or verdant
plains

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form;
That wonted form, alas! thy dying bed!

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom

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Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its wo;

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 ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hapless fate.

DELIA.

There is usually printed in Burns's works a little ode, entitled Delia, which, from its deficiency of force and true feeling, some have suspected to be not his composition. Allan Cunningham tells a feasibleenough-looking story regarding it. "One day, when the poet was at Brownhill, in Nithsdale, a friend read some verses composed after the pattern of Pope's song by a person of quality, and said: 'Burns, this is beyond you. The Muse of Kyle cannot match the Muse of London city.' The poet took the paper, hummed the verses over, and then recited Delia, an Ode." There is not anything in this anecdote inconsistent with the fact, that Burns sent the ode for insertion in a London newspaper. (?)

“MR. PRINTER-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from yours, &c. "R. BURNS.

"ELLISLAND, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789."

FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty shews.

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;

But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamoured busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-browned Arab's lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;

O let me steal one liquid kiss,

For, oh! my soul is parched with love!

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ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY

ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT.

The poem on the Hare had been sent to Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, for whose critical judgment and general character Burns entertained a high veneration. Dr. Gregory's criticisms led to certain alterations, the result of which was as follows.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

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.

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.

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