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To a Mouse by Robert Burns - Peter Capaldi |
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, |
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O, what a panic's in thy breastie! |
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Thou need na start awa sae hasty, |
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Wi' bickering brattle! |
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I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee |
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Wi' murd'ring pattle! |
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I'm truly sorry man's dominion, |
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Has broken nature's social union, |
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An' justifies that ill opinion, |
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What makes thee startle |
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At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, |
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An' fellow-mortal! |
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I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; |
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What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! |
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A daimen icker in a thrave |
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'S a sma' request; |
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I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, |
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An' never miss't! |
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Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! |
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It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! |
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An' naething, now, to big a new ane, |
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O' foggage green! |
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An' bleak December's winds ensuin, |
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Baith snell an' keen! |
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Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, |
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An' weary winter comin fast, |
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An' cozie here, beneath the blast, |
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Thou thought to dwell - |
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Till crash! the cruel coulter past |
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Out thro' thy cell. |
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That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, |
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Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! |
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Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, |
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But house or hald, |
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To thole the winter's sleety dribble, |
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An' cranreuch cauld! |
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But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, |
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In proving foresight may be vain; |
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The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men |
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Gang aft agley, |
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An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, |
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For promis'd joy! |
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Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me; |
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The present only toucheth thee: |
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But och! I backward cast my e'e, |
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On prospects dreaer! |
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An' forward, tho' I canna see, |
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I guess an' fear! |
