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 thole the 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!