For Nana, lover of stories and love:


A lady was walking on a midsummer's day
The birds they were whistling so merrily and gay
When along came a white steed in the finest array
And it carried a young man these words he did say

Come live by the great moon
That rules the strong tide
Climb up on me horse love
And be my sweet bride

I bid you good morning, this young man did say
And where might you be going on such a nice day

I'm walking to view sir the bonny blue sea
For it's all I have left now that means much to me

If that's all you love now, come riding with me
You'll live in my castle deep under the sea
You'll sleep in my gold bed, my fine silken sheets
And have gifts of great beauty from all that you meet

She's up in the saddle and away they did ride
The horse skipped and danced over waves on the tide

Now she's only remembered by this story I tell
From an old man on horseback who once knew her well

-Kate Rusby Lyrics Sweet Bride

To a Mouse 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!