TO A FIELD-MOUSE.

Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
And fellow-mortal!

Thou saw the fields lay bare and waste
And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [2]
In proving foresight may be bain:
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and vain,
For promised joy.

Burns.