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The
story goes that Burns accidentally destroyed a mouse’s nest while he was ploughing
at Mount Oliphant farm, near Alloway, where his father was the tenant, and
composed To a Mouse as a result. The mouse was presumably a
Harvest Mouse, in view of the reference to a nest.
The
Ayrshire town of Alloway, where Burns was born, is now somewhat in the
nature of an open-air museum devoted to the Scottish bard. There is
the cottage where he was born which is now the Burns Museum, and there is
the inevitable visitor centre, but also, scattered round the town, are
various references to his poems, especially Tam O’Shanter, but also
a bronze monument by Kenny Hunter (2010) to the eponymous mouse:
“Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie”
Among
the graves around the derelict church of the day is that of the poet’s
parents:
(photos by the webmaster)
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To
a Mouse,
by Robert Burns, 1785
Wee,
sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O,
what a pannic's in thy breastie!
Thou
need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi'
bickering brattle!
I
wad be laith to rin 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 maun live!
A
daimen icker 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 big 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.
Thy
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!
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