Sly little, cowering, timorous beastie!
Oh what a panic's in thy breastie!
You need not start away so hasty,
With bickering speed:
I should be loth to run and chase thee
I should indeed!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Hath broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow mortal.
Sometimes, I doubt not, thou dost thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou must live;
A little barley in the shieve
Is small request;
And all thou tak'st, I do believe,
Will ne'er be missed.