TO
A
MOUSE
,
On
turning
her
up
in
her
Nest
with
the
Plough
,
November
,
1785.
WEE
,
sleeket
,
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
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
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
!