To a Mouse by Robert BurnsPersonal Response:
I thought this poem was hard to understand. It was hard to understand it because it was written in Scotland, in a native dialect. This poem is old, and we do not speak the English that they did long ago. I understood it more when I found the translated version.
The whole poem is pretty simple. First, the speaker is talking to a mouse, telling him not to be afraid and not to run away. The mouse got scared because the speaker was plowing a field and uprooted the mouse from its home. The speaker then gets all depressed and feels sorry for the mouse that he almost killed. The mouse was in its winter nest in the speakers field that he was plowing. The speaker then feels jealous of the mouse because he thinks mice only think of the future, and they dont dwell on things.
The speaker is the main character of this poem. He is plowing a field and destroys a mouses winter nest. He gets depressed because of it. The mouse is the other character. It almost died in its nest because of the speaker.
I would recommend this poem to people that like poetry and and have internet access. One needs the internet to translate this poem because it is hard to read and understand. People who are against the destruction of mice nests would not want to read this poem either.
To a Mouse, Robert Burns
To A Mouse
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, 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, What makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't!
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O' what a panic's in thy breastie! I doubt na' whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? Thy wee bit housie , too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,. O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa.
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