On Seeing A Wounded Hare

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous 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 wand'rer 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. 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 ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate


Crawford Logan

About this work

This is a poem by Robert Burns. It was written in 1788 and is read here by Crawford Logan.

Themes for this poem


Selected for 14 September

Today's selection was, as the saying goes, inspired by actual events. An early version of the poem turned up at Floors Castle in 2011. The manuscript was enclosed in a letter dated May 17th, 1789. We offer it here in the middle of the hunting season, when in pursuit of what the Bard calls, 'inhuman' man's 'barb'rous art', kills ought at least to be clean.

Donny O'Rourke

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