DESERT ISLAND POEM 3

In Scotland we commemorate the birthday of our national bard, Robert Burns, on January 25; I think most people throughout the world are familiar with a Burns Night or Burns Supper.

 

As a child I was made (for we were never asked – we were always ‘telt’) by my teacher to recite a Burns poem on this day every year in front of the class. The perennial favourite amongst my classmates was To a Mouse and one by one we would all get up and recite the same poem – it wasn’t much of a spectator sport so one year, I decided to try and be clever. I recited Scots Wha Hae which I didn't realise was actually a song and should therefore have been sung - much to the merriment of my teacher, Mr Hamilton.

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As a child I was merely reciting words from memory but I have grown to appreciate the poet's tenderness amidst his overwhelming sorrow and despair. To a Mouse is a profoundly beautiful poem by a farmer, on his farm in this unique scenario. Its most famous lines are without doubt, 'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley', but my favourites have always been, 'I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken nature's social union'. I am sure you will find something in the work that resonates with you.

 

If you struggle to understand any of the words there is a glossary at the foot of the poem.
 

Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
                          Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
                          Wi' murdering 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!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 
                          'S a sma request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
                           An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane.
                          O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
                          Baith snell an' keen!

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.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. 
                          But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
                          An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
                           Gang aft a-gley,
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!


Glossary:
sleekit - glossy-coated
bickering brattle - rushing clatter
laith - loth
pattle - plough-scraper
whiles - sometimes
daimen-icker in a thrave - odd ear in 24 sheaves
lave - remainder
silly - feeble
foggage - coarse grass
snell - bitter
coulter - ploughshare
stibble - stubble
but house or hald - without house or holding
thole - endure
cranreuch - hoar-frost
lane - alone
gang aft agley - often go awry