Ae spring brought off her master hale, Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, ON ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, Which a fellow had just shot at. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, 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. Oft as by winding Nith, 1, 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 aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS ADDRESS ΤΟ THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While Summer with a matron grace Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that THOMSON was her son. EPITAPHS. |