Explore "The Wounded Hare" by Robert Burns on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 a 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.
Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe; / The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; / Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide / That life a mother only can bestow!
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.