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Sceing a Wounded Hare Limp by me,
which a Fellow had just thot át.
NHUMAN man ! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blafted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity foothe thee with a figh, 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 of rest, but now thy dying bed !
The sheltering rushes whiftling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom preft.
Oft as by winding Nith I musing, wait
The sober sve, or hail the chearful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the devy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless
To the SHADE of THOMSON, on crowning his Bust,
at Ednam, Roxbourgh-fbire, with BAYS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's food,
Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the fod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian ftrains between.
While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, ftops to trace
'I he progress of the spiky blade.
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head, And fees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed
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 haft won, While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.
Late CAPTAIN Gros e’s PEREGRINATIONS thro'
SCOTLAND, collecting the ANTIQUITI Es of that KINGDOM
EAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
I rede you tent it:
And, faith, he'll prent it.
chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O'lature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel And vow! he has an unco flight
O' cauk and keel.