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Now, wha this tale o' truth Thall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed :
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-farks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN
NHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

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 :
No more the thickening brakes and ver-

dant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

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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

hapless fate.

ADDRESS

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

green,

Or pranks the fod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between.

While Summer with a matron grace

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade.
O 2

While

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

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.

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