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Now, wha this tale o' truth Thall read,
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity foothe thee with a figh, Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart !
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains :
dant 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 preft.
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The fober eve, or hail the chearful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy
A D DRESS,
To the SHADE of THOMSON, on crowning
his Bust, at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with Bays.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle
Or pranks the fod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between.
While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed.
While maniac Winter
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.