Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.
Robert BurnsOn turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785
CXLIV. To a MouseW
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’rin’ 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 blessin’ wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’;
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
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,
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 an’ 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!