Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need nastart awasaehasty,
Wi’ bickeringbrattle!
I wadbe laithto rinan’ 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, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maunlive!
A daimen ickerin a thrave
‘S a sma’request;
I’ll geta 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 biga new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baithsnellan’ keen!
Thou sawthe fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Tillcrash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That weebitheap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’thy trouble,
But house orhald,
To tholethe winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuchcauld!
But, Mousie, thou art nothy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’mice an’men
Gangaftagley,
An’lea’e us nought butgrief 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 cannasee,
I guess an’fear!