O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin’ brattle;
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring prattle?
In a world which still enjoys the brutal chase, where even clergymen find pleasure in inflicting pain with the inhuman gun and rod, these lines written a hundred years ago, on seeing a wounded hare limp by, should place Burns amongst the blessed of the earth:
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity sooth thee with a sight,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!