Robert Burns Translation: To a Mouse

To a Mouse by Robert Burns translation/modernization/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast, Why’s such panic in your breast? Why dash away, so quick, so rash, In a frenzied flash When I would be loath to run after you With a murderous plowstaff! I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, And justifies that bad opinion Which makes you startle, When I’m your poor, earth-bound companion And fellow mortal! I have no doubt you sometimes thieve; What of it, friend? You too must live! A random corn-ear in a shock's A small behest; it- ‘ll give me a blessing to know such a loss; I’ll never miss it! Your tiny house lies in a ruin, Its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn! Now nothing’s left to construct you a new one Of mosses green Since bleak December’s winds, ensuing, Blow fast and keen! You saw your fields laid bare and waste With weary winter closing fast, And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! The cruel iron ploughshare passed Straight through your cell! That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble Had cost you many a weary nibble! Now you’re turned out, for all your trouble, Less house and hold, To endure the winter’s icy dribble And hoarfrosts cold! But mouse-friend, you are not alone In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes of Mice and Men Go oft awry, And leave us only grief and pain, For promised joy! Still, friend, you’re blessed compared with me! Only present dangers make you flee: But, ouch!, behind me I can see Grim prospects drear! While forward-looking seers, we Humans guess and fear! Original Scots Dialect Poem: To a Mouse by Robert Burns On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785. Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickerin 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! ... 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! I Have a Yong Suster (Anonymous Medieval English Riddle-Poem, circa 1430) translation by Michael R. Burch I have a young sister Far beyond the sea; Many are the keepsakes That she sent me. She sent me the cherry Without any stone; And also the dove Without any bone. She sent me the briar Without any skin; She bade me love my lover Without longing. How should any cherry Be without a stone? And how should any dove Be without a bone? How should any briar Be without a skin? And how should I love my lover Without longing? When the cherry was a flower, Then it had no stone; When the dove was an egg, Then it had no bone. When the briar was unborn, Then it had no skin; And when a maiden has her mate, She is without longing!