C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
To a Mouse
By Robert Burns (1759–1796)
W
Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty,
Wi’ bick’ring brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
Has broken nature’s social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which mak’s thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
And fellow-mortal!
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,
And never miss ’t!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!
And naething now to big a new ane
O’ foggage green!
And bleak December’s winds ensuin’,
Baith snell and keen!
And weary winter comin’ fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hauld,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!
In proving foresight may be vain!
The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley,
And lea’e us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy.
The present only toucheth thee;
But och! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.