You had best be on your way, timid beast,

O', what a panic's in your breast!

You need not start away so hasty,

With bickering leafen-rattle!

I would be loathe to run and chase ye

With a murdering lawn-mower blade to paddle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes you startle,

At me, you poor, earth-born companion,

And fellow-mortal!

I doubt not why, but you may thieve;

What then? Poor beast, you must live!

Your little house too, in ruin!

It's silly what the winds are throwin'!

And nothing, now, to beg a new one,

Of mosses green!

And bleak February's winds ensuin',

Your nose must be keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary Winter coming fast,

And cozy here, beneath the blast,

You thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel lawn-mower passed

Out through your cell.

That little heap of leaves and stubble

Has cost you many a weary nibble!

Now you've turned out, for all your trouble,

But house or field,

To withstand the Winter's rainy dribble,

And scratching cold.

But Palm-Rat, you are no example,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes of Mice and Men

Again and again prove futile,

And leave us not but grief and pain,

For promised joy!

Still, you are blessed, compared with me!

The present only touches thee:

But "Ouch!" I backward cast my eye,

On prospects drear!

And forward though I cannot see,

I guess and fear!