Wee, sleekit, cowran,
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 companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
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!
Thy wee-bit housie, too,
in ruin!
It's 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 monie 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' cranreuch
cauld!
But Mousie, thou are 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!
Still, thou art blest,
compar'd 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!
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