To a Mouse

by Robert Burns

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

 

1.
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,
                                         Wi’ murdering pattle !
 
2.
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 !
 
3.
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 !
 
4.
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 win’s ensuing,
                                               Baith snell an’ keen !
 
5.
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 thro’ thy cell.
 
6.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee 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 !
 
7.
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 !
 
8.
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, tho’ I canna see,
                                                   I guess an’ 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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