Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! [Each hopping]
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
An' close thy e'e? [eye]
_A Winter Night._
A number of his most popular pieces are the expression of this
warm-hearted sympathy, a sympathy not confined to suffering but
extending to enjoyment of life and sunshine, and at times leading him
to the half-humorous, half-tender ascription to horses and sheep of a
quasi-human intelligence. Were we to indulge further our conjectures
as to what Burns might have done under more favorable circumstances,
it would be easy to argue that he could have ranked with Henryson and
La Fontaine as a writer of fables.
TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
NOVEMBER, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, [sleek]
O what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle! [hurrying rush]
I wad na be laith to rin an' chase thee [loath]
Wi' murd'ring pattle! [plough-staff]
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, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave [odd ear, 24 sheaves]
'S a sma' request; [Is]
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, [rest]
And never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! [frail]
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell an' keen! [bitter]
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 thro' thy cell.
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