The Mouse

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!

Now before you lot think I've gone raving bonkers, the above, is a Poem written by Robert Burns in 1785 titled "To a Mouse". Now if you'ever heard the saying "the best laid plains of mice and men", well here you have its origin. This in my humble and wuite irrelevant view is one of the greatest poems ever written. Wwhilst written in a hybrid of English and Gaelic, the emotion flowing from it is undeniable.

The very symbolism of all that one plans to the very last detail or indeed all that one believes is important collapses in a heap of dust is is so palpably captured in this poem that one cannot but reflect on the very reality of man's (and indeed Mice-kinds) existence and the sheer futility of our ambitions.

Throughout my life, I've seen too many broken dreams and dashed hopes. I've seen so many examples of life's flotsam, with inner pride and lost hopes. I can only repeat the text of the Book of Ecclesiastes- "Young man rejoice in thy youth" the symbolism if this being that its a fatal mistake getting carried away with earthly trappings. Take one day and go to a homeless shelter and have a chat with some of the fellas you'll meet there. I know I've said this before, but we're talking about extremely successful who fall on a bout of bad luck and due to innate weaknesses or plain bad fortune lose equilibrium and are crossed out of the formal index of respectability.

Every single day, a man, woman or child dies who had plans for the next day, Jon Henry the Policeman (recenyly stabbed to death in Luton), had plans for the next week with his wife, before he was killed by a worthless Nigerian vagrant, whom I know to have been the son of an extremely wealthy late Nigerian Politician (the young man by the way inherited a large chunk of his dad's fortune and ironically ends up penniless on the streets of Luton, thieving and killing to get a fix- I digress as usual, but the principle is apt I hope). The Iraqi recruits had dreams, the citizens of the Balkan states had plans for their beautiful country before the war, i could go on but believe you get my point.

All I can say is perhaps we should regularly take a step back and put things in perspective, what is really important and what is trivial, its your choice of course.