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 promised 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!