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Questions or more information, please contact Alistair Mills alistair.mills@btinternet.com
Updated
January 30, 2007
Avec des questions ou pour plus d'information, contacter Alistair Mills alistair.mills@btinternet.com
Dernière mise à jour le 30 janvier 2007
Lowland Scots | English | French |
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 and chase thee, Wi murdering 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, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A dainen 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! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An naething, now, to bit a new new ane, O foggage green! An bleak December's win's 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 thru thy cell. That wee bit heap o leaves an stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house and hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou are 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 are blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, An forward, tho I canna see, I guess an fear! |
Small, glossy, cowering, timorous beast, Oh, what a panic is in your breast, You need not start away so hastily, With rushing and scurrying! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes you startle At me, your poor, earth-born companion, And fellow mortal! I doubt not meanwhile, that you may steal; What then? poor beast, you must live! An odd ear in a sheaf Is a small request; I'll get a blessing with the rest, And never miss it! Your little house, too, in ruins! Its silly walls the winds are strewing! And nothing, now, to build a new one, Of foliage green! And bleak December's wind is ensuing, Both strong and bitter! You saw the fields laid bare and empty, And weary winter coming fast, And cosy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel ploughshare passed Right through your cell. That little heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble! Now you're turned out, for all your trouble, Of house and holding, To endure the winter's sleety rain, And hoar-frost cold! But Mousie, you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes of mice and men Go often awry, And leave us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy! Still you are blessed, compared with me! The present only touches you: But oh! I backward cast my eye, And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear! |
Doux petit animal timoré, plein de peur, |