Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o’er the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the Birks of Aberfeldy? While o’er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the Birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend like lofty wa’s The foaming stream deep-roaring fa’s, O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws— The Birks of Aberfeldy. The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers, White o’er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi’ misty showers The Birks of Aberfeldy. Let fortune’s gifts at random flee, They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the Birks of Aberfeldy? 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, And never miss’t! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its 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 and 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 a-gley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain For promis’d joy.