To a Mouse

by Robert Burns

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785

 

1.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, timírous beastie,
O, what a panicís in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
                                         Wií bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin aní chase thee,
                                         Wií murdering pattle !
 
2.
Iím truly sorry manís dominion
Has broken Natureís social union,
Aní justifies that ill opinion
                                          Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
                                           Aní fellow mortal !
 
3.
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen icker in a thrave
                                             íS a smaí request ;
Iíll get a blessin wií the lave.
                                              Aní never missít !
 
4.
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly waís the winís are strewin !
Aní naething, now, to big a new ane,
                                               Oí foggage green !
Aní bleak Decemberís winís ensuing,
                                               Baith snell aní keen !
 
5.
Thou saw the fields laid bare aní waste,
Aní weary winter comin fast,
Aní cozie here, beneath the blast,
                                                Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past
                                                 Out throí thy cell.
 
6.
That wee bit heap oí leaves aní stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble !
Now thouís turned out, for aí thy trouble,
                                                 But house or hald,
To thole the winterís sleety dribble,
                                                 Aní cranreuch cauld !
 
7.
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes oí mice aní men
                                                  Gang aft agley,
Aní leaíe us nought but grief aní pain,
                                                   For promisíd joy !
 
8.
Still thou art blest, compared wií me !
The present only toucheth thee :
But och ! I backward cast my eíe,
                                                   On prospects drear !
Aní forward, thoí I canna see,
                                                   I guess aní fear !
 
Robert Burns | Classic Poems
 

A Red, Red Rose ] To a Mountain Daisy ] Address to a Haggis ] Address to Edinburgh ] Auld Lang Syne ] Is there for Honest Poverty ] Address to the Unco Guid ] The Cotter's Saturday Night ] To a Louse ] My Heart's in the Highlands ] Holy Willie's Prayer ] Tam O'Shanter ] [ To a Mouse ]

 

 


 

 

 
 
 
 

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