On turning up her Nest with the Plough, Nov. 1783.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,O what a panic's in thy breastie!Thou needna start awa sae hastieWi' bickerin brattle;I wad be laith to rin and chase theeWi' murd'rin pattle.
I'm truly sorry Man's dominionHas broken Nature's social union,And justifies that ill opinion,Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,And fellow-mortal.
I doubt na, whiles, but ye may thieve;What then? poor Beastie, thou waun live:A daimen-icker in a thrave'S a sma' request;I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,And never miss't.
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!Aud naething now to big a new ane,O' foggage green;A bleak December's winds ensuin,Baith snell and keen.
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,And weary Winter ⟨comin⟩ fast,And cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till, crash! the cruel couter pastOut-thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,Has cost thee monie a weary nibble;Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,But house or hauld,To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,And cranreuch cauld.
But, Mousie, thou art no thy laneIn proving foresight to be vain;The best-laid schemes o' Mice and MenGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me,The present only toucheth thee;But, och! I backward cast my eeOn prospects drear!And forward tho' I cannot see,I guess and fear!
Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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