The Beauties of Burn's Poems/Address to a Mouse

by Robert Burns

For other versions of this work, see To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest, with the plough.

TO A MOUSE,

On turning up her Nest with the Plough, Nov. 1783.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa sae hastie
Wi' bickerin brattle;
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'rin pattle.

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal.

I doubt na, whiles, but ye may thieve;
What then? poor Beastie, thou waun 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!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
Aud naething now to big a new ane,
O' foggage green;
A bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell and keen.

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary Winter ⟨comin⟩ fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel couter past
Out-thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble;
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hauld,
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight to be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' Mice and Men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me,
The present only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my ee
On prospects drear!
And forward tho' I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

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