Here is one of my favorite poems, mangled into an ode about UF's budget cutbacks. I wrote this in March of 2008, while I was chair of the College of Engineering Faculty Council, and dealing with budget cuts.

The original To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November 1785 is by Robert Burns. He is the source of the oft-quoted phrase the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft astray (in English). It appears in his poem, below, in the original Scots dialect, of course.

Hover your mouse over a word to see its definition; I've defined quite a few of them for the benefit of our international students, who may not be familiar with the thee's and thou's of Early Modern English, and who are typically not familiar with Scots.

Below, you can also listen to MP3 audio recordings of both poems, as read by me and by Iain Duff, a true Scot.

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough by Robert Burns		To a Gator, on Cutting Him Up in His Swamp, and How by Tim Davis
Click here for audio of me reading it Click here for audio of Iain Duff reading it (right-click and open in new tab, to read while you listen)		Click here for audio of me reading it Click here for audio of Iain Duff reading it (right-click and open in new tab, to read while you listen)
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' 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, 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,         An' 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 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, 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!		Wee, sleekit, cowerin', tim'rous Gator, O, what a panic, soon or later, When Tallahassee's comin' at yer,         To axe thy budget! Oh what departments, Legislature,         You'll tell 'Go budge it!'? It's truly sad the State's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies the pols opinion,         Which makes them throttle Me, or faculty companion,         An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may teach; What then? poor Gator, thou beseech A fifty million, this year each,         'S a small request; From politician's flowery speech;         They'll never miss't! Thy wee bit Swampie, too, in ruin! Its once strong majors: winds are strewin! An' nothing, now, to take a freshman,         O' cash once green! An' Bernie Machen's hands they're forcin':         Cuts sharp an' keen! Thou saw the academic fields, An' thought thy Futures Bright to yield, An' cozy here, with cuts that healed,         Thou hoped to say-- Till crash! thy Sutures Bleak revealed,         Cuts fell and fey. That wee bit heap o' profs an' majors, Has cost them money; legislators Have turned thee out, and skinned a Gator,         With hearts turned cold! Perhaps they hope to heal thee later,         If breath be hold! But Gator, thou hast known thy game, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' Governmen'         Go oft astray, An' leave us naught but grief an' pain,         For promised pay! Still thou art blessed, compared with me, The President has cut me free, And och! with backward cuts, his eye         Wells up in tears! Yet forward, look and clearly see:         Election nears!

If you like this poem, you can find more poems at Horror Matrices and Other Mathematical Poetry. Click here for an index of my serious poetry. In particular, see The CISE Ship of State, Taming Pegasus, and The Tigert for my other Gator-themed poems.

For a one-page PDF file of the two poems, click here

For a set of PDF slides, click here For another translation of this poem (into the language of matrix computations), see The Mouseholder QR