“Wee sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O’ what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hastie
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 Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An’ fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ f0ggage green!
An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost the monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
an’ cranreuch cauld!
But mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
for promis’d joy!
Stil thou art blessed, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward though I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!”
Robert Burns.
Feel the Burns. Composed after unearthing a mouse nest while ploughing.
Islander