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Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
An' justifies that ill opinion
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve:
A daimen-icker in a thrave
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
An' forward, tho' I canna see