ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW
by Robert Burns
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,Has broken nature's social union,An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, 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 blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!It's silly wa's the winds are strewin!An' naething, now, to build a new ane, O' foggage green!An' bleak December's winds 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,Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou's turned 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 promised joy!
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me;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!