To A Mouse,
On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
November, 1785
By Robert BurnsWee 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 prattle!I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which make thee startleAt 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 laive,
And 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' foggage green!An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell and 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 thee mony a waery 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 a-gley,An' lae'e us naught but grief and pain,
For promised joy.Still thou art blest, 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.
