To a Mouse

Wee, sleek, cowerin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need not start away so hasty
With bickering brattle!
I would be loath to run an' chase thee,
With murdering 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 not, sometimes, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou must live!
A rare, small piece but from the thrave
Is a small request;
I'll get a blessin' with the lave,
An' never miss it.

Thy little housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly walls the winds are strewin'!
An' nothing, now, to build a new one,
Of foliage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Both sharp an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap of leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee many a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for all thy trouble,
But house or hold,
To bear the winter's sleety dribble,
An' gray frost cold.

But Mousie, thou art not thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice an' men
Go oft awry,
An' leave us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy!

Still thou are blest, compared with me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I cannot see,
I guess an' fear!

By Robert Burns