To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

This ode is, I think, my favourite Burns poem written in the Scots language.  Burns wrote the ode in 1785 yet I recognise in it many issues that are significant for me today.  It reveals Rabbie's acute observation of nature and it deals with the right of all creatures to be respected by other creatures. The poem makes it clear Burns thought all living creatures have a right to live freely on our planet. The description of the mouse's struggle with the elements, speaks to me of the noble struggle of the weak and defenceless of all species - including our own - in the face of mightier and destructive powers. The poem also considers the human predicament: our capacity not only to live, like the mouse,  in the present but additionally our capacity to reflect on the past and to guess at the future. Most of all it reminds us that human beings may organise for happiness but the vicissitudes of life inevitably place fearful obstacles in our way. When I recite this poem people often express surprise that Burns wrote the line "The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley." A common response is "Didn't John Steinbeck write that?" To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough By Robert Burns 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 faith to run 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 man live! A daimen kicker 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  a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! 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. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To tholethe 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! ________________________________