Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
Robert Burns (17591796)To a Mouse, on Turning Her up in Her Nest, with the Plough
W
O, what a panic ’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
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!
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I ’ll get a blessing wi’ the lave,
And never miss ’t!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new one,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
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.
Has cost thee mony 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!
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.
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!