T A M O T H U I H N（1 / 1）

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!