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To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
translation/modernization/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
Why’s such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
In a frenzied flash
When I would be loath to run after you
With a murderous plowstaff!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
And justifies that bad opinion
Which makes you startle,
When I’m your poor, earth-bound companion
And fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
A small behest; it-
‘ll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I’ll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
Its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing’s left to construct you a new one
Of mosses green
Since bleak December’s winds, ensuing,
Blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
With weary winter closing fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! The cruel iron ploughshare passed
Straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
Had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you’re turned out, for all your trouble,
Less house and hold,
To endure the winter’s icy dribble
And hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
Go oft awry,
And leave us only grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still, friend, you’re blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch!, behind me I can see
Grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
Humans guess and fear!



Original Scots Dialect Poem: 

To a Mouse
by Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
Wi' bickerin 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! 

...

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!



I Have a Yong Suster
(Anonymous Medieval English Riddle-Poem, circa 1430)
translation by Michael R. Burch

I have a young sister
Far beyond the sea;
Many are the keepsakes
That she sent me.

She sent me the cherry
Without any stone;
And also the dove
Without any bone.

She sent me the briar
Without any skin;
She bade me love my lover
Without longing.

How should any cherry
Be without a stone?
And how should any dove
Be without a bone?

How should any briar
Be without a skin?
And how should I love my lover
Without longing?

When the cherry was a flower,
Then it had no stone;
When the dove was an egg,
Then it had no bone.

When the briar was unborn,
Then it had no skin;
And when a maiden has her mate,
She is without longing!
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