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Robert Burns
1759-1796
 1784? | Robert Burns, Now Westlin Winds, and Slaught'ring Guns [1784?] in vol. 1 of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns, (Kilmarnock, 1871); Online at Google Books.
Now Westlin Winds, and Slaught'ring Guns
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The Sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
the full'ring, gory pinion!
1785 | Robert Burns, To A Mouse, On Turning Up Her Nest, with the Plough, November, 1785 in vol. 1 of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns, (Kilmarnock, 1871); Online at Google Books.
To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With the Plough
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle !
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Natures's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal !
1786 | Robert Burns, The Brigs of Ayr [1786] in vol. 1 of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns, (Kilmarnock, 1871); Online at Google Books.
The Brigs of Ayr
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer-toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive, waxen piles,
Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the week,
The death o'devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm poetic heart but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
1787 | Robert Burns, On Scaring Some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit, A Wild Scene Among the Hills of Oughtertyre [1787] in vol. 1 of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns, (Kilmarnock, 1871); Online at Google Books.
On Scaring Some Water-Fowl in Loch Turit
Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?—
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace:
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride.
Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane —
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
1789 | Robert Burns, On Seeing a Wounded hare Limp By Me, Which a Fellow Had Just Shot At [1789; in vol. 1 of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns, (Kilmarnock, 1871); Online at Google Books.
On Seeing A Wounded Hare Limp By Me Which a Fellow Had Just Shot
Indeed, there is something in that business of destroying for our sport, individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially, which I could never reconcile to ideas of virtue. ("Robert Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 4th May, 1789")
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 they cruel heart!
Go live, poor wanderer 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 innocent, some 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 it 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 ever, 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.
Perhaps a mother's anguish adds it woe;
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
Ah, helpess nurselings, who will now provide
That life a mother only can bestow?
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