Steinbeck took his title for Of Mice and Men from Robert Burn’s poem, To a Mouse: On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. I love this poem and long to share it with others, but the original language is a bit off-putting to some. Here is my solution. Burns on the left; Chandler on the right.

To a Mouse
On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, timorous 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!

Little sleek scared and timid mouse,
How full of fear you are.
You don’t have to run away so hasty
Scolding me.
I would be loath to run and chase you
Or kill you with a paddle.

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’m very sorry that human power
Has broken our natural relationship.
And has created the justified fear
That makes you run
From me, your earthly companion
And fellow creature.

I doubt na, whiles, 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!

I have no doubt that you steal food.
So what? Poor little guy, you have to live.
One bit of corn from many corn sheaves,
It’s not much.
I'm still blessed with what is left;
I’ll never miss what you took.

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 and keen!

Your little house is ruined.
Its silly walls the winds are strewing,
And there is nothing growing now, with which to build a new one.
No green second-growth.
And December winds are coming; they are
Both cold and sharp.

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! The cruel coulter passed
Out-through thy cell.

You saw the fields were bare and empty,
And that tiresome winter is coming soon.
Comfortably underneath the wind,
You planned to live;
Until crash! My cruel plow blade cut
Straight through your nest.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves and stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreach cauld

Your little pile of leaves and dry grass
Took lots of nibbles for you to build.
Now you are turned out; in spite of all your work,
You are without house or home
To protect you from winter’s wet snow
And icy cold.

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,
And lea’s us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promised joy.

But Mousie, you are not yourself alone
In testifying that planning may be useless.
The best-made plans of mice and men
often go awry,
and leave us nothing but grief and pain,
instead of the joy that we expected.

Still thou art blest compared wi’ me!
The present only touchect thee:
But och! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
An’ forward though I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

Still, you are blessed compared with me.
You live only in the present,
Whereas -- ouch -- I can look back
and remember the disappointments of my past,
And look to the future
And guess and fear.