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.

    That wee bit heap o’ leaves and 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,
          And cranreuch cauld!

    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain: 
    The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
          Gang aft a-gley,
    And lea’e us naught but grief and pain,
          For promised joy.

    Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! 
    The present only toucheth thee: 
    But, och!  I backward cast my e’e
          On prospects drear! 
    And forward, though I canna see,
          I guess and fear.

ROBERT BURNS.

 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786

    Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
    Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
    For I maun crush amang the stoure
          Thy slender stem: 
    To spare thee now is past my power,
          Thou bonny gem.

    Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
    The bonny lark, companion meet,
    Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet,
          Wi’ speckled breast,
    When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
          The purpling east!

    Cauld blew the bitter biting north
    Upon thy early, humble birth;
    Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
          Amid the storm,
    Scarce reared above the parent earth
          Thy tender form.

    The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
    High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield,
    But thou, beneath the random bield
          O’ clod or stane,
    Adorns the histie stibble-field,
          Unseen, alane.

    There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
    Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
    Thou lifts thy unassuming head
          In humble guise;
    But now the share uptears thy bed,
          And low thou lies!

    Such is the fate of artless maid,
    Sweet floweret of the rural shade! 
    By love’s simplicity betrayed,
          And guileless trust,
    Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
          Low i’ the dust.

    Such is the fate of simple bard,
    On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! 
    Unskilful he to note the card
          Of prudent lore,
    Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
          And whelm him o’er!

    Such fate to suffering worth is given,
    Who long with wants and woes has striven,
    By human pride or cunning driven
          To misery’s brink,
    Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
          He, ruined, sink!