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ROBERT BURNS
The Address to the Haggis
Auld Lang Syne
The Bonny Wee Thing
Epistle to Dr. Blacklock
Farewell
Invitation to a Medical Gentleman
Is There for Honest Poverty
The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata
Masonic Song
The Master’s Apron
Miscellanea
Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill
A Red Red Rose
Scots Wha Hae With Wallace Bled
Such a Parcel of Rogues
To a Mouse
Three Graces for dinner
The Tree of Liberty
The verse of Robert Burns
[Robbie
Detail from an unsigned, undated oil painting owned by Ancient Light Lodge No.88 in Delta, British Columbia. You can also download a grayscale version or silhouette.
TO A MOUSE, on turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785.
Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin 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 lave,
An' never miss 't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its 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 an' wast,
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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn'd 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 agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Transcribed from a 1927 facsimile of the Kilmarnock edition of 1786, p. 138.

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