Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Iwadbelaithtorinan' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes theestartle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thoumaunlive!
Adaimen ickerin athrave
I'llgeta blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, tobiga new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Thousawthe fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Tillcrash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
Thatweebitheap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, fora'thy trouble,
Totholethe winter's sleety dribble,
But, Mousie, thou artnothy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemeso'micean'men
An'lea'e us noughtbutgrief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'dwi'me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' Icannasee,
You would bum thatmouse, insert a bagpipe in it and play Scotland the brave through its little guts while its ringpiece chattered like a shithouse door in a hurricane.