Home   |         NEW: (hypothetically starring) VIC REEVES as LUKE SKYWALKER .. in "Waiting for Godot, the hollywood version".

<< But Och! I backward cast my eye, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I cannot see, I guess an' fear! >> (For all the victims of neoliberalism and of vulture capitalism, for the victims of invasions, for the victims of social inequality.)   Share:  
Thrust of argument: Before we laugh, I offer this. Direction of resistance / implied resistance: Spare a thought, you who live safe in the warmth.

 

 

Enter your DOMAIN NAME to
collect this point:

 

Removal of resistance: For those whose lives you destroy. Unification: On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough,

November, 1785



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' murdering 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' requet;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' 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 win's ensuing,

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 and stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou's turned 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 are blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I cannot see,

I guess an' fear!
Rebut this point   Support this point   Edit this point

(TVhobo's estimated size of readership since 2013, mainly in the UK and USA, with Germany in third place:
over 200,000 readers across approximately 200 cities/towns

 

Copy/paste point into your work:

Type: Open statement

3 versions:

1. Server time: 18:35:13 on 13/12/2019
2. Server time: 18:38:42 on 13/12/2019
3. Server time: 18:39:11 on 13/12/2019

Related points:

References:

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/mouse/

 

 

previous point on the grid   |   next point on the grid

 

Click here to read about Shams Pirani, the editor and chief author on this grid - note, if you can actually prove anything written above wrong, I would gladly, if the proof is sufficient, correct what I've written and what I think - if I could, however, prove your attempted proof wrong, then I would accordingly say so and maintain whatever point of view is completely based on fact and proof.

Simple text version.

<< But Och! I backward cast my eye, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I cannot see, I guess an' fear! >> (For all the victims of neoliberalism and of vulture capitalism, for the victims of invasions, for the victims of social inequality.)

Before we laugh, I offer this.

Spare a thought, you who live safe in the warmth.

For those whose lives you destroy.

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough,

November, 1785



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' murdering 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' requet;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' 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 win's ensuing,

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 and stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou's turned 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 are blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I cannot see,

I guess an' fear!



https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/mouse/