Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/121

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And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal.

I doubt na, whiles, but ye may thieve;
What then? poor Beastie, thou waun live:
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
And never miss't.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
Aud naething now to big a new ane,
O' foggage green;
A bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell and keen.

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary Winter ⟨comin⟩ fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel couter past
Out-thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble;
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hauld,
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight to be vain;