Poem for a wee mouse

I had an a nice little break from the routine today at the office, when I rescued a wee baby mouse from a coworker's office. Amidst rising panic on her part and screaming from those who had also seen the mouse, I swept in and gathered the little guy up in a tissue. He was just a tiny thing, and didn't have much energy -- he may have been sick from poison or something. I took him outside and put him in a pleasant shady spot.

I'm not afraid of mice since I grew up with a dad who kept them in cages in our basement for use for in his science class, to study behavior and such. We used to play with them like we would any pet, so I don't mind them, except when they startle me by running quickly across the floor, or get in my stuff and chew it up. ;-)

Here's a poem, which believe it or not, is actually familiar to us all -- if you can get past the really fun Scots language here. There is an oft-quoted phrase towards the end which I think you all might recognize, the truth of which is strangly appropriate in these times...

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
Robert Burns 1785

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' murd'ring 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!
It's 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 mony 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 agley,
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!