On Seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot at

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On seeing a wounded hear limp by me
which a fellow had just shot at. --------

Inhuman man! curse on thy savage 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 wanderer of the wood & field,
The bitter little that of life remains:
No more the thickening brakes, or verdant plains,
To thee shall food, or home, or pastime yield. ----

Seek, mangled wretch, some haunt 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 aim, & mourn thy hapless fate --
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