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 daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a fma' request :

I'll get a bleffin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit boufie, too, in ruin! It's filly wa's the win's are ftrewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds enfuin,

Baith fnell an' keen!

Thou faw the fields laid bare an' waft,

An' weary Winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crafh! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' ftibble, Has coft thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But houfe or hald,

To thole the Winter's fleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But Moufie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving forefight may be vain : The best laid fchemes o' Mice an' Men,

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promif'd joy!

Still, thou art bleft, compar'd wi' me!

The prefent only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward caft my e'e,

On profpects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna fee,

I guess an' fear!

And bar the doors wi' driving fnaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, weftlin jingle.

While frofty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift,
That live fae bien an' fnug:

I tent lefs, and want lefs
Their roomy fire-fide;

But hanker, and canker,

To see their cursed pride.

II.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r,

To keep, at times, frae being four,
To see how things are shar'd;
How beft o' chiels are whyles in want,
While Coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't:

But DAVIE lad, ne'er fafh your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,

As lang's we're hale and fier:

The laft o't, the warft o't,

Is only but to beg.

III.

To lye in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtlefs, great distress!

Yet then content could make us bleft;

Ev'n then, fometimes we'd fnatch a taste Of trueft happiness.

The honeft heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba',
Has ay fome cause to smile:
And mind ftill, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';

Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa.

IV.

What tho', like Commoners of air,

We wander out, we know not where,

But either house or hal'?