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, 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!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and 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 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 nought but grief an' pain
            For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, oh! I backward cast my e'e
            On prospects drear!
An' forward tho' I canna see,
            I guess an' fear!