And off they trot through the bushes, and through those heathery bogs which have by turns charmed and wearied many others besides mice.
They reach the elder sister's. There are delicious provisions, cheese, butter, malt, fish, and dishes without number.
And lordis fair thus couth thay counterfeit,
Except ane thing: thay drank the watter cleir
Instead of wyne; bot yit thay maid gude cheir.
The little sister admires and nibbles. But how long will this last? Always, says the other. Just at that moment a rattle of keys is heard; it is the spenser coming to the pantry. A dreadful scene! The great mouse runs to her hole, and the little one, not knowing where to hide herself, faints.
Luckily, the man was in a hurry; he takes what he came for, and departs. The elder mouse creeps out of her hole:
How fair ye sister? cry peip quhair-ever ye be.
The other, half dead with fright, and shaking in her four paws, is unable to answer. The great mouse warms and comforts her: 'tis all over, do not fear;
Cum to your meit, this perell is overpast.
But no, it is not all over, for now comes "Gilbert" (for Tybert, the name of the cat in the "Roman de Renart"), "our jolie cat"; another rout ensues. This time, perched on a partition where Tybert cannot reach her, the field mouse takes leave of her sister, makes her escape, goes back to the country, and finds there her poverty, her peas, her nuts, and her tranquillity.
The mouse of Scotland has been fortunate in her painters; another, and a still better portrait was to be made of the "wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie," by the great poet of the nation, Robert Burns.