Could this finest of rhymers, have had wee too much scotch in his haggis
(crack variety) when he went a ploug'in?

Even Stomp'in Tom didn't ryme that much when " tight" on Skinners Pond 'shine....and, especially not when encountering a mouse. (probably wouldn't have sold many songs with that, matey). Though, Tom likely wouldn't have the guts to eat the foul smell'in stuff.

I have it that William Topaz McGonagall's style was fashoned after Roberts. In fact, I have it that they were cousins....William having been willed a kilt frequently worn by Bobby when plough'in...maybe even encountering a mouse. ( Scotch and haggis drool stains are said to still be on it. But, I can'na reveal me sources, for fear of getting a haggis parcel bomb in the mail).

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 by: Robert Burns

            EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
            Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
            Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
            Wi' bickering brattle!
            I was 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,
            And never miss't!
                        
            Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
            Its 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' waste,
            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 mony 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 art no thy lane,
            In proving foresight may be vain:
            The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
            Gang aft a-gley,
            An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
            For promis'd joy!
                              
            Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
            The present only toucheth thee:
            But och! I backward cast my e'e,
            On prospects drear!
            An' forward, tho' I cannot see,
            I guess an' fear!