The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley

Mér þótti miður að missa af Burns Supper um daginn, í minningu skoska þjóðskáldsins Robert Burns, en í ár eru 350 ár frá fæðingu hans. Ég hef mikið dálæti á Burns, auk þes sem þarna var boðið upp á haggis, skoskt viský, söng og ljóðalestur. Ég held ekki síst upp á ljóðið hans To a Mouse, sem hann ykrir til músar hvers hreiður hann plægði í svaðið í ógáti. John Steinbeck sótti titilinn á skáldsögu sinn Of Mice and Men í ljóðið. Ég skelli skosku frumútgáfunni hér og hlekk á ensku þýðinguna:

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' 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 win's 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 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 e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Ensk þýðing ljóðsins

Monty Python-liðar heiðra svo annað skoskt ljóðskáld, Ewan McTeagle: