In the week when the 2018 McCash Scots Poetry Competition has been announced, we continue to celebrate the breadth and vitality of poetry in the traditional Scots tongue.

Here, in extracts from one of the most popular poems by Robert Burns, we see the poet slip smoothly between standard English and Ayrshire Scots as he searches for optimum impact.

TO A MOUSE, 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’ 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!

~

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, though 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!