Poem: "To a Mouse" by Robert Burns

The subtitle of "To a Mouse" by Robert Burns (1759-1796) reads:

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough [Plow], November 1785.

From this we gather that Burns, who was a working farmer, disturbed a mouse's nest, gave it some thought, and wrote this poem about the uncertainty of life. (John Steinbeck picked up a line for the title of his book, Of Mice and Men, with much the same intention.)

Burns is widely celebrated as the national poet of Scotland, not least because he wrote in the Scots language which, while a sister to modern English, has developed plenty of vocabulary since the two languages diverged between 1150 and 1300. The grammar's pretty much the same, so we can usually follow, but most of us need a little help.

Professor Jim Bucket to the rescue! After each stanza of the poem below, I have inserted a loose paraphrase of that stanza's meaning. It's far from perfect, but will give you the gist.

Pro Tip: Try reading the Scots out loud--it has a wonderful sound!

--------

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, 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!

Little, clever, cowering, nervous creature,
Oh, what a panic is in your breast!
You don't need to run away so quickly
Angrily chattering!
I would hate to run and chase you,
With a small shovel to kill you!

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'm truly sorry the human domination of the earth
Has broken our relationship with Nature
And proves correct your low opinion of humans--
The one that makes you jump and run
Because of me, another poor creature who shares the earth with you
And is mortal just like you!

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!

I'm sure that sometimes you steal from me;
So what? Poor creature, you have to live!
An occasional ear of corn from twenty-four sheaves of it
Is little to ask;
I will benefit from the rest,
And never miss what you took.

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!

Your little house is in ruin, too!
Its weak walls are scattering in the wind!
And to build a new one, there's now no
Coarse green foliage!
And bleak December's winds are coming,
Bitter and piercing!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' 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.

You saw the fields were bare and empty,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the wind,
You thought you could live,
Till crash! The cruel plow passed
Right through your room.

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!

That small pile of leaves and stubble [your nest],
Has cost you a lot of tiring chewing!
Now you are kicked out of your home, for all your trouble,
Without house or property,
To endure the winter's frozen rain,
And cold frost.

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!

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In learning that it may be useless to predict things:
The best-laid plans of mice and men
Often go astray,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
In place of the joy we expected!

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!

Still you're lucky, compared with me!
Only the present bothers you:
But oh! I can look back,
On a depressing view!
And I can look forward: though I cannot see for sure,
I can guess, and fear, what will happen!