To a Mouse
On turning her up in her nest 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’ bickerin’ brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase theeWi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken Nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt 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,And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’:And naething, now, to big a new ane,O’ foggage green!An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,An’ weary winter comin’ fast,An’ cozy here beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till crash! the cruel coulter pastOut through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibbleHas 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 dribbleAn’ cranreuch cauld!
But, mousie, thou art no thy laneIn proving foresight may be vain:The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ menGang aft a-gley,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’eOn prospects drear!An’ forward though I canna see,I guess and fear!