To a Mouse-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1785

On Turning Up Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785

              Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

             Oh, 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 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' foggage green!

        An' bleak December's winds ensuin

                Baith snell an' keen!

            Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,

           An' weary winter comin fast,

            An' cozie here beneath the blast

                  Thou thought to dwell,

            Till crash! the cruel coulter past

                  Out thro' thy cell.

            That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble

           Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

           Now thou's turn'd 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.

            Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

            The present only toucheth thee:

            But, och! I backward cast my e'e

                  On prospects drear!

           An' forward, tho' I canna see,

                  I guess an' fear!