TO A MOUSE

On turning her up in her nest with the plough, November, 1785 by Robert Burns

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

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

I doubt na, whyles, 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 laive,
And never miss ‘it!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewing’!
As naething now to big a new ane
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuing’,
Baith snell and 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 through 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 a-gley,
An’ lea’e us naught but grief and 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, though I canna see,
I guess an’ fear.

As we come to the close of these 1st 100 days of Obama’s reign, we mousies have had our future fields plowed under by our leader’s best laid schemes. All we can hope is that his plans go askew, that enough people who make up his worshiping throng wake up squeaking to the dangers that lie a head for his American field of dreams.
I look ahead like a fearful beastie to many a winter of discontent.