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Robert Burns (1759 - 1796) To A Mouse on turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785 Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' 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, my poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 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, An' never miss't ! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! An' neathing, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green ! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell 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 thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Hast cost thee monie 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 ! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 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 promis'd joy ! Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee: But och ! I backward cast me e'e, On prospects drear ! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear ! 
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