To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nes
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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 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 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 lave, 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 laid bare an' waste, an' weary winter in fast, an' cozie here, beh 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 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 lane, in proving fht may be vain; the best-laid 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!