Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, an slay,

An’s weel paid for’t;

Yet stops me o my lawfu prey,

Wi his damn’d dirt.

‘But hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,

Tho dinna ye be speakin o’t!

I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,

As dead’s a herrin;

Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,

He gets his fairin!’

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell

Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which rais’d us baith:

I took the way that pleas’d mysel,

And sae did Death.

TO A MOUSE

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

Wee, sleekit, cowran, 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 murdering 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 sill wa’s the wins are strewin!

An naething, now, to big a new ane,

O foggage green!

An bleak December’s win’s 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.

THE TWA DOGS
A Tale

Twas in that place o Scotland’s Isle,

That bears the name of auld King Coil,

Upon a bonie day in June,

When wearing thro the afternoon,

Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,

Forgathered ance upon a time.

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,

Was keepit for his Honor’s pleasure:

His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,

Shew’d he was nane o Scotland’s dogs;

But whalpit some place far abroad,

Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar

Shew’d him the gentleman an scholar;

But tho he was o high degree,

The fient a pride, nae pride had he;

But wad hae spent an hour caressan,