to a oe, on turng her up her nest with the plough, noveber, 1785
wee, sleekit, w&039;r, ti&039;ro beastie,
o, what a panic&039;s thy breastie!
thou need na start awa sae hasty,
wi&039; bickerg brattle!
i wad be ith to r an&039; chase thee,
wi&039; urd&039;rg pattle!
i&039; truly rry an&039;s doion,
has broken nature&039;s cial union,
an&039; jtifies that ill opion,
which akes thee startle
at , thy poor, earth-born panion,
an&039; fellow-ortal!
i doubt na, whiles, but thou ay thieve;
what then? poor beastie, thou aun live!
a dain icker a thrave
&039;s a sa&039; reest;
i&039;ll t a bless wi&039; the ve,
an&039; never iss&039;t!
thy wee bit hoie, too, ru!
it&039;s silly wa&039;s the &039;s are stre!
an&039; naethg, now, to big a new ane,
o&039; fogga green!
an&039; bleak deceber&039;s ds ensu,
baith snell an&039; keen!
thou saw the fields id bare an&039; waste,
an&039; weary ter fast,
an&039; zie here, beneath the bst,
thou thought to dwell—
till crash! the cruel ulter past
out thro&039; thy cell
that wee bit heap o&039; leaves an&039; stibble,
has st thee ony a weary nibble!
now thou&039;s turn&039;d out, for a&039; thy trouble,
but hoe or hald,
to thole the ter&039;s sleety dribble,
an&039; cranreuch cauld!
but, oie, thou art no thy ne,
provg foresight ay be va;
the best-id sches o&039; ice an &039;n
gang aft agley,
an&039;lea&039;e nought but grief an&039; pa,
for prois&039;d joy!
still thou art blest, par&039;d wi&039;
the present only toucheth thee:
but, och! i backward cast y e&039;e
on prospects drear!
an&039; forward, tho&039; i canna see,
i guess an&039; fear!
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