to a mouse, on turning her up in her with the plough, november, 1785
wee, 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 ith to rin an' chase thee,
wi' murd&# 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 panion,
an' fellow-mortal!
i doubt na, whiles, 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 ve,
an' never miss't!
thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
it's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
an' hing, now, to big a new ane,
o' foggage green!
an' bleak december's winds ensuin,
baith snell an' keen!
thou saw the fields id bare an' waste,
an' weary winter in fast,
an' cozie here, beh the bst,
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 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,
an' reuch cauld!
but, mousie, thou art no thy ne,
in proving fht may be vain;
the best-id schemes o' mi 'men
gang aft agley,
an'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
for promis'd joy!
still thou art blest, par'd wi' me
the present only toucheth thee:
but, och! i backward cast my e'e.
on prospects drear!
an' forward, tho' i a see,
i guess an' fear!