Timorous Beasties

I didn't vote for David Cameron or the Conservatives at the last election - which probably comes as no surprise.

But any reasonable person would have to admit that the Prime Minister has courage - whether over Libya or Scottish independence - he has got stuck in and taken the fight to his political enemies.

Unlike his immediate predecessor - Gordon Brown - who allegedly had Scotland all tied up at one stage - David Cameron has seized the initiative and confronted the issue of independence - which Labour simply ducked for years.

Now I think that this may ultimately backfire - because the Tories are such a toxic brand in Scotland.

But while I won't be voting for David Cameron or the Conservative party any time soon - I think it's impossible not to admire his leadership qualities.

One area that needs some urgent work though - is his appreciation of Scotland's national bard - Robert Burns. 

Because at Prime Minister's questions yesterday David Cameron rather put his foot in it - by mispronouncing his lines.

While accusing his enemies of being 'wee, sleekit, cowering, timorous beasties' (pronounced beesties) - he went on to fluff his lines.

By saying that they were all panicking in their 'breasties' which should - of course - be pronounced 'breesties' to ryhme with 'beesties'.

Yet the PM said 'breasties' as in 'chicken breasties' - which spoiled the effect of what he was trying to say.

So he'll have to do better in future - if he's going to strike fear in the hearts of his political opponents in Scotland - by quoting Robert Burns.

Still he tried I suppose - which is more than you can say about some of the timorous wee beasties from years gone by.

To a Mouse - by Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous 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' murdering 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 win's 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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned 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 agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared 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!