To a Mouse

(On Turning Her Up In Her Nest

With The Plough, in November.)

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,

O what a panic‘s in thy breastie!

Thou needna 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 maks thee startle

At me, thy puir earth-born companion,

An’ fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? puir beastie, thou maun live!

A damen-icker in a thrave

‘S a sma’ request;

I’ll get a blessing wi’ the lave,

An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit house, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa’s the winds are strewin;

An’ naething now, to big a new ane,

O’ foggage green!

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuing,

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 monie 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 forsight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men

Gang aft a-gley,

An’ lae’e us nought but grief and pain

For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Ouch! I backward cast my e’e

On prospects drear;

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear.

To a Louse

(On Seeing One on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church.)

Ha! where ye gaun, ye crowlin’ ferlie!

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauge and lace;

Tho,’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,

Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner,

How dare ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner

On some puir body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle

Wi’ ither kindred jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn or bane ne’er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye’re out o’ sight,

Below the fatt’rils, snug an’ tight,

Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right

Till ye’ve got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow’ring height

O’ Miss’s bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump and gray as onie grozet:

O for some rank mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I,d gie you sic a hearty doze o’t,

Wad dress your droddum.

I wadna been surpris’d to spy

You on an auld wife’s flannen toy,

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On’s wyliecoat;

But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie!

How dare ye do’t!

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,

An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie makin’!

Thae winks and finger ends, I dread,

Are notice takin’!

O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us,

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

And foolish notion:

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

And ev’n devotion!

Submitted R. McC.

Jan 07