Painting for Pleasure

Having had a few days to please myself, and being as its been raining most days,  so the garden has been out of bounds.. I decided to revitalise a galvanised bucket which had been sat outside for some time..

We bought some herbs from the garden centre last week and we will plant them in the bucket which we have put drain holes in, to stand on the patio.. I didn’t get any photo’s of what it looked like before, but thought I would spruce it up even more with a little mouse.. Well in fact two cheeky mice!.

 All I have to do now is add some clear varnish over the bucket to keep weather proof.. Then plant the herbs.. I came across Robert Burns poem To A Mouse.

Below is the Standard English Translation from Robert Burns original Poem so those who do not understand the broad Scottish in the Video, so you can translate and understand..

Thank you for Reading

Sue

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December’s winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cosy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter’s sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Source: Poem Robert Burns  To a Mouse http://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse