Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
     I wat they did na weary;
     And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes—­
     Their sports were cheap an’ cheery: 
     Till butter’d sowens,^16 wi’ fragrant lunt,

     [Footnote 16:  Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them,
     is always the Halloween Supper.—­R.B.]

     Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;
     Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
     They parted aff careerin
     Fu’ blythe that night.

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 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!

Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper

     Here lies Johnie Pigeon;
     What was his religion? 
     Whae’er desires to ken,
     To some other warl’
     Maun follow the carl,
     For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!

     Strong ale was ablution,
     Small beer persecution,
     A dram was memento mori;
     But a full-flowing bowl
     Was the saving his soul,
     And port was celestial glory.