(A Robert Burns / Seanan McQuire Fan-Fic Mash-Up)


Tae ye ah kin be a wee timorous beastie;

A' sleeket 'n' quivering ’n’ cowrin’ in mah breestie

Ah’ must start awa hasty.

Yet yer laith to rin an’ chase me

Wi’ murd’ring pattle? 


Yer sawry? yer sawry?

Ye'v broken Nature’s social union,
Whit justifies mah peely-wally opinion,

            an’ makes me startle.
At thee, m’ poor earth-born companion,

an’ fellow-mortal!


Ye doubt nae whyles Ah’ may thieve,

A've lost mah hame 'n' ah mist grieve.

            Bit ye hae of'erd sawry
Ye hae of'erd sawry giant grue cratur.

'n' ah, a wee mousie staun in awe o' ye.

Let us greet th'gither ower th' loss o' mah housie

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!

Marc th' day! Marc th' day!

A feast fur th' day that th' farmer of'erd sawry

In th' munth o’ Wance ‘gain th’ Winds Doth Blaw .

'n' forever a canny farmer wha offers sawry tae th' mice

Is nigh unto th' laird oor faither, or mither.


Bit let's nae be tae hasty

The best laid schemes o’ Men an’ Mousies 

          Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, 

          For promis’d joy!

Am Ah blest compared wit’ thee?

Who e’ver’ backward casts ‘is e’e.

            On prospects drear!

An’ forward tho’ Ilk o' us canna see.

            Baith guess an’ fear!

Is thare room in yer attic, cottar?

Is yer cellar wash 'n' filled wi' larder?

Wid bit ye mynd a mousie or twa or five or twenty...

Juist fur a seezin, 'n' we'll be oan oor wey?

Ah promise we'll be gey wee trauchle