December 30, 2022

Daily Diary, Day 850:

The best laid plans (and why of mice and men?) Now I have to go look this up.

OK, I'm back: the full quote is "the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry." And it is from the poem To a Mouse, written by the Scottish poet Robert Burns.

I found the original poem (with all the Scottish spelling etc.) so charming that I am going to quote the whole thing at the end of this post.

Anyway, despite my plans to walk and write today, I didn't walk and haven't written anything yet. I lost 2 hours sleep last night, so very draggy. This morning I needed to do a facebook ad, then Rio the border collie came to play, then a couple of phone calls, both of which I was glad to take, but wiped out the morning. Then late lunch, then needed to tweak the graphic of the facebook ad once it went live because the graphic didn't look right, and here we are, late afternoon.

But I've already got 5500 words written this week (despite not writing at all on Sunday) so anything I write when I am done with this post is just that much more above my 5000 goal.

So plan for tomorrow (which I hope will not go awry) is to get enough sleep, take walk early because we are supposed to get another storm coming in late afternoon. However, as of right now, no phone calls, and I hope to get a good start to next week's 5000 word goal.

To a Mouse

BY ROBERT BURNS

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin 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’ 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 turn’d 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 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!

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33