To A Mouse

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, 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 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 mony 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!

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 promised joy.

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!