...still a wild jack-hare

Hello everyone - I'm back. Apologies for having gone AWOL for a few weeks but I think I just needed a break from blogging for a while and it's often hard to get back into the swing of things once you've taken that step. Thank you for your continued support and kind comments though - particularly to Sherry who expressed concern.

Have you noticed how popular paintings of hares have become now? I thought I'd join the party with my own interpretation. Painted in acrylics on MDF, there's a lot of texturing going on and even some interference paint, giving a coppery metallic sheen to the background. Keith has made me a lovely sycamore frame for him and he'll soon be up for sale on the ArtgalleryUK website. 8x6.5inches.

For the title I looked for and found this poem by William Cowper (1731-1800). It's an epitaph to his cosseted, but obviously ungrateful, pet hare.

Epitaph on a Hare

BY WILLIAM COWPER

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,

    Nor swifter greyhound follow,

Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,

    Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo’,

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

    Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domesticate bounds confined,

    Was still a wild jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

    His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

    And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,

    And milk, and oats, and straw,

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

    With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

    On pippins’ russet peel;

And, when his juicy salads failed,

    Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

    Whereon he loved to bound,

To skip and gambol like a fawn,

    And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,

    For then he lost his fear;

But most before approaching showers,

    Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons

    He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,

    And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor’s sake,

    For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

    And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade

    He finds his long, last home,

And waits in snug concealment laid,

    Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks

    From which no care can save,

And, partner once of Tiney’s box,

    Must soon partake his grave.