It will not hurt any of us to remember the value of every thing, every second, every scrap of wood, every piece of stubble in our lives. It reminds us how wealthy we truly are.
Robert Burns wrote “To a Mouse” after tearing up a mouse’s nest with his plow. It is also where John Steinbeck got the title for his novel Of Mice and Men. The original poem has lots of Scottish vocabulary, so I’ve posted a translation alongside it.
If you want to hear a truly buggered up Scottish burr in a dry Kansas wind, check out the audio file. My knowledge of the rules of Scottish diction comes largely from my liquor store clerk who corrects my pronunciation of the Scotch labels.
To a Mouse | To a Mouse |
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by Robert Burns | A Fairly Standard Translation |
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 laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murdering pattle. |
Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast, O, what a panic is in your little breast! You need not start away so hasty With argumentative chatter! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough-staff. |
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 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 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 doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal; What then? Poor little beast, you must live! An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request; I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it. |
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 win’s ensuin, Baith snell an’ keen! |
Your small house, too, in ruin! Its feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse grass green! And bleak December’s winds coming, Both bitter and 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. |
You saw the fields laid bare and wasted, And weary winter coming fast, And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel plough passed Out through your cell. |
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch cauld. |
That small bit heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble! Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding, To endure the winter’s sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold. |
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 little Mouse, you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew, And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! |
Still thou are blest, compared 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 are blest, compared with me! The present only touches you: But oh! I backward cast my eye, On prospects dreary! And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear! |