thou saw the fieldsid bare an' waste,

an' weary winter in fast,

an' cozie here, beneath the st,

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 thyne,

in proving foresight may be vain;

the bestid 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, par'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!