Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale

The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley; And leave us naught but grief and pain For promised joy.

All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime An' done nae-thing, But stringing blethers up to rhyme For fools to sing.

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!

Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare.