>The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley Oft go awry - kind of summarizes my past couple weeks. So I dug up my favorite Burns poem, and feel compelled to share. Sadly, I missed commemorating Burns Night this past January... ~~~~~~~ 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' murdering pattle. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which maks 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, And 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 win's ensuin, Baith snell and 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 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 a-gley, 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 e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! ~~~~~ Or a modern English translation: Sleek, timid, cowering little guy, Oh, what panic is in your eye! You need not run away so hasty, With a protesting squeal! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murderous zeal. I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, And justifies that ill opinion That makes you startle At me, your poor, earth born companion And fellow mortal! I’m sure, sometimes, you steal some wheat; So what? Poor thing, you’ve got to eat! Bits and scraps from a field of grains, Is a small request; I will be blessed with what remains, It won’t be missed. And your little house, it’s ruined too! Its walls dispersed as wind blows through, And nothing left to build anew, With plow’s upturn. And bleak December’s winds ensue, With icy burn! You saw bare fields and harvest passed, And weary winter coming fast. And cozy here beneath the blast, You thought to rest, Till crash! the cruel plow did smash, Right through your nest. That little heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble. Now you’re turned out, for all your trouble Your house is lost, To suffer winter’s sleety dribble, And bitter frost. But little mouse, you’re not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid plans of mice and men Go oft awry, And leave us only grief and pain, For promised joy! Still compared to me, you are but blessed! About just today, you’ve ever stressed: Alas I think of long ago, On fortune drear! And forward, though I cannot know, I guess and fear!