to a mouse, on turning her up in her nest with the plough, november, 1785

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-bornpanion,

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 win's are strewin!

an' naething, now, to big a new ane,

o' foggage green!

an' bleak december's winds ensuin,

baith snell an' keen!