| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909. | | | | To a Mouse | | By Robert Burns (1759–1796) |
| | On Turning Her up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 |
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WEE, sleekit, cowrin, 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, | 5 |
| Wi’ murd’ring pattle! | |
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| I’m truly sorry man’s dominion, | |
| Has broken nature’s social union, | |
| An’ justifies that ill opinion, | |
| Which makes thee startle | 10 |
| At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, | |
| An’ fellow-mortal! | |
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| I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; | |
| What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! | |
| A daimen icker in a thrave | 15 |
| ’S a sma’ request; | |
| I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, | |
| An’ never miss’t! | |
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| Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! | |
| It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! | 20 |
| An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, | |
| O’ foggage green! | |
| An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, | |
| Baith snell an’ keen! | |
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| Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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| That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble | |
| Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! | |
| Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, | |
| But house or hald, | |
| To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, | 35 |
| An’ cranreuch cauld! | |
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| But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, | |
| In proving foresight may be vain; | |
| The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men | |
| Gang aft agley, | 40 |
| An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, | |
| For promis’d joy! | |
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| Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me | |
| The present only toucheth thee: | |
| But och! I backward cast my e’e, | 45 |
| On prospects drear! | |
| An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, | |
| I guess an’ fear! | | | |
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