<font size=30 face="garamond"><b><big>Robert
Burns</big></b></font>
Robert Burns was born in 1759, Ayrshire, Scotland. Robert
spent the majority of his childhood working his father's farm and most
of his education came from lessons he taught himself at home. Robert's father passed away when
Robert was only 15 years old and the
responsibility of the farm landed upon his shoulders. His farming ventures failed, but his poetry
began to gain some public attention.
In 1786, the 27 year old farmer poet published a book of poems to finance a trip to Jamaica. The
book sold much better than anticipated
and Robert abandoned the trip to Jamaica and traveled, instead, to Edinburgh to publish a 'better'
second edition. Robert died only 10 years
later at the early age of 37, but not before he 'gifted' the world with such unforgettable treasures
as "Auld Lang Syne," "Red, Red Rose" and "To A Mouse.
For me, Robert Burns is an inspiration to write not as a
scholastic grammarian, but as a Southerner; a Southerner with a rich heritage of lazy slang
and 'frenchified' words. Burns writes in such a way that you can only hear a Scottish brogue
accent. What a thrill twould be to write with Burns's
passion in a Southerner's swagger!
To A
Mouse
On turning her up in her nest with the
plough,
November, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
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, thy 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!
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