T. TROWBRIDGE.
TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785
"To a Mouse" and "To a Mountain Daisy," by Robert Burns (1759-96), are
the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman.
The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature
at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character.
The lines "To a Mouse" seem by report to have been composed while Burns
was actually plowing. One of the poet's first editors wrote: "John
Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years
afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse.
Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill
it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became
thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants
with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem
to Blane."
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
And fellow-mortal!
I doubtna, whiles, 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,
And never miss 't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
And naething now to big a new ane
O' foggage green,
And bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed
Out through thy cell.
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