To a Mouse

Oddly enough, I was just struck by something silly while re-reading this poem. I have this obsessive habit of listening to audio books of the Harry Potter series as I go to bed each evening, and its repetition becomes a kind of memorization that rides with me, strange, sort of like as many writers have used the classical rhetoric tool of imitation, of copying out in one's own hand master works one admires. I do not copy, but I know more about the things JK Rowling references in those books than most people might.

For instance, in the famous poem below by Robert Burns, we find the voice of JK Rowling's poltergeist, Peeves! Who cares that John Steinbeck lifted from this poem his famous book title, "Of Mice and Men?" What's more important is that Peeves the poltergeist channels Burns when he has a mind to, as he taunts Harry Potter!

The Poem
By Robert Burns

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what 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' 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' wast,
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 are 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

Link: To a Mouse - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.