The very talented Dawn Steele recites one of the most beloved poems ever written. I could listen to her recite poetry with that Scottish accent all day. It is easier to understand if you read along, so here is the text (my translation first and the real poem second):

IN PLAIN ENGLISH:

Wee, sleek, cowering, timorous beast,
O, what panic is in thy breast!
Thou need not start away so hasty,
With hurrying scamper!
I would be loath to run and chase thee,
With murdering plow-staff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beast, thou must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves is a small request:
I'll get a blessin with what is left,
And never miss it!

Thy wee-bit house, too, in ruin!
It's feeble walls the winds are strewing!
And nothing, now, to build a new one,
Of course grass green!
And bleak December's winds ensuing,
Both bitter and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary Winter coming fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough past
Out through thy cell.

That wee-bit heap of leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee many a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for all thy trouble,
without house or hold.
To endure the Winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold!

But Mouse, thou art not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of Mice and Men,
Go often askew,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still, thou art blest, compared with me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects drear!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

ORIGINAL TEXT:

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what 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, whyles, 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' wast,
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 monie 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 are 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!