THE 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 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 arm, and mourn thy hapless fate.

DELIA, AN ODE

"To the Editor of The Star.-Mr. Printer-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from —Yours, &c., R. BURNS.

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”

FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty shows.

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;

O let me steal one liquid kiss,

For, Oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

THE GARD'NER WI' HIS PAIDLE
Tune-" The Gardener's March."

WHEN rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,

The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

The crystal waters gently fa',

The merry bards are lovers a',

The scented breezes round him blawThe Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare

To steal upon her early fare;

Then thro' the dews he maun repair

The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
He flies to her arms he lo'es the best,
The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS.

On a bank of flowers on a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,

The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;

When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood,
Who for her favour, oft had sued;

He gaz'd, he wish'd

He fear'd, he blush'd,

And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd,
Were seal'd in soft repose;

Her lip, still as she fragrant breath'd,
It richer dyed the rose;

The springing lilies, sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast;
He gaz'd, he wish'd,

He fear'd, he blush'd,
His bosom ill at rest.

Her robes light-waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
He gaz'd, he wish'd,

He fear'd, he blush'd,

And sigh'd his very soul.

As flies the partridge from the brake,

On fear-inspired wings,

So Nelly starting, half-awake,
Away affrighted springs;

But Willie follow'd-as he should,
He overtook her in the wood;

He vow'd, he pray'd,

He found the maid

Forgiving all and good.

YOUNG JOCKIE WAS THE BLYTHEST LAD.

YOUNG Jockie was the blythest lad,
In a' our town or here awa;
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha'.

He roos'd my een sae bonie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae genty sma';
An' aye my heart cam to my mou',
When ne'er a body heard or saw.

My Jockie toils upon the plain,

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw:

And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain,

When Jockie's owsen hameward ca'.

An' aye the night comes round again,
When in his arms he taks me a';

An' aye he vows he'll be my ain,
As lang's he has a breath to draw.

THE BANKS OF NITH

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;

But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Comyns ance had high command.

When shall I see that honour'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear!
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here!

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom;
And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton through the broom.
Tho' wandering now must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!

JAMIE, COME TRY ME

Chorus.-Jamie, come try me,
Jamie, come try me,
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me,

If thou should ask my love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me!

Jamie, come try me, &c.

If thou should kiss me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,

Jamie, come try me!

Jamie, come try me, &c.

I LOVE MY LOVE IN SECRET

My Sandy gied to me a ring,

Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine;