The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

banefu’ viands gustit high,

      And turn and fald their weary clay,

      To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.

1 Pope’s Windsor Forest, R.B.

2 Pope’s Essay on Man, R.B.

       To a Mouse

      On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough November 1785

      First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

      Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie, small, sleek

      O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! breast

      Thou need na start awa sae hasty away, so

      Wi’ bickering brattle! hasty, scurry

      5 I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, would, loath, run

      Wi’ murdering pattle! a wooden plough-scraper

      I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion

      Has broken Nature’s social union,

      An’ justifies that ill opinion

      10 Which makes thee startle

      At me, thy poor, earth-born companion

      An’ fellow mortal!

      I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; not, sometimes

      What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! must

      15 A daimen icker in a thrave one ear of corn in 24 sheaves

      ’S a sma’ request;

      I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, remainder

      An’ never miss’t!

      Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! small, house/nest

      20 Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! walls, winds

      An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, nothing, build, new one

      O’ foggage green! thick winter grass

      An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuin, winds

      Baith snell an’ keen! both bitter, biting cold

      25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,

      An’ weary Winter comin fast,

      An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, cosy

      Thou thought to dwell,

      Till crash! the cruel coulter past plough blade

      30 Out thro’ thy cell.

      That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, small, stubble

      Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! many

      Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,

      But house or hald, without, holding

      35 To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble, endure, drizzle

      An’ cranreuch cauld! hoar-frost cold

      But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, not alone

      In proving foresight may be vain:

      The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

      40 Gang aft agley, go often wrong

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

      For promis’d joy!

      Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!

      The present only toucheth thee:

      45 But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

      On prospects drear!

      An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, cannot

      I guess an’ fear!

      Formally, this is a companion to that other creaturely masterpiece, To a Louse. McGuirk defines them as both belonging to ‘Horatian satire, linking an exemplum of observed experience with a final sententia or maxim’ (p. 223). In terms of content, however, the two poems, presumably deliberately, could not be more different. The hypothermic mouse, houselessly unprotected, has the ice of winter penetrating its fast fading heart. The hyperactive louse, pulsing with grotesque energy and intentions, foresees a comfortable head-high residence.

      This is truly one of the great animal poems of the Sentimental canon fit to stand with Fergusson’s great goldfinch and butterfly poems and Smart’s cat poem. The destructive ploughman poet’s guilt and empathy for the creature are wholly realised as is the sense of the inherent relationship of all created things. It is, seriously, The Ancient Mariner in miniature.

      Crawford, in a very fine reading of the poem, rescued it from its daisy-like sentimental reputation particularly by stressing the subtle political analogy in the poem between mice and peasant suffering similar, perhaps fatal, decanting in that age of agrarian revolution. As Crawford remarks:

      The mouse becomes more than any animal; she is a symbol of the peasant, or rather of the ‘poor peasant’ condition. On a careful reading of the fifth stanza, the lines ‘Till crash! the cruel coulter past/out thro’ thy cell’ affect us with all the terror of Blake’s ‘dark Satanic mills’. The coulter is in reality Burns’s equivalent of the mills – part of the metaphorical plough of social change that breaks down the houses of both Lowland and Highland cotters. This is not to claim that the poem is allegorical in any crude or literal sense. The mouse does not ‘stand for’ the mother of ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’ or the Highland ‘hizzies’ whom Beelzebub thought should be ‘lessoned’ in Drury Lane, but she belongs to the same world as these others and gains an extra dimension from those emotions whose intensity arises from the depth and power of Burns’s own contemplation of human wretchedness and exploitation. (pp. 166–7)

      It was written in the early winter of 1785.

       Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet

      First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

      While winds frae aff BEN-LOMOND blaw, from off, blow (north wind)

      And bar the doors wi’ drivin’ snaw, snow

      And hing us owre the ingle, sit around/over, fireplace

      I set me down to pass the time,

      5 And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, two

      In hamely, westlin jingle: western

      While frosty winds blaw in the drift, blow

      Ben to the chimla lug, right, chimney bottom/fire

      I grudge a wee the Great-folk’s gift, little

      10 That live sae bien an’ snug: so comfortable

      I tent less, and want less care for

      Their roomy fire-side;

      But hanker, and canker,

      To see their cursed pride.

      15 It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r,

      To keep, at times, frae being sour, from

      To see how things are shar’d;

      How best o’ chiels are whyles in want, people, often

      While Coofs on countless thousands rant, fools, make merry/riot

      20 And ken na how to ware’t; know not, spend