The Mouseholder QR

Here is a matrix translation of one my favorite poems (from Burns to Higham). 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 readers, 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.

NOTE: this poem will be revealed in weekly installments in the NA Digest, starting on March 30, 2009

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up
in Her Nest with the Plough
by Robert Burns (1785)
The Mouseholder QR
by Tim Davis (2009)

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!
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 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, sparsest, QR-factored Matrix,
O, what a panic's in my math tricks!
Thou need na space thine eigs like hay sticks
        Wi' ditherin' low-bits!
I wad be laith to rin a quick fix,
        Wi' murd'rin' page hits!

I'm truly sorry math's inversion
Has broke thine eigen's ill condition,
An' justifies Nick's ill opinion,
        Which makes his eyes fix
At C, thy poor, low-rank companion,
        An' fellow matrix!

I doubt they'll help, my Givens' swaps;
What then? thy matrix diag drops!
A round-off eps in all the flops:
        'S a sma' request
To get an answer when it stops,
        An' never miss't!

Thy wee Householder too, in ruin!
Its silly col's the Inf's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
        O' function Green's;
A bleak expansion's unconvergin'
        By standard means!

Thou saw the ℜⁿ fields vast,
An' weary methods comin fast,
No codes ye feared, throughout the past
        In archived journal--
Till crash! Nick Higham's codes, at last,
        Out thro' thy kernel.

That wee bit heap o' profs' old papers,
Has cast no root from thine old capers!
Not one's turn'd up, for a' thy vectors,
        Are badly scaled
To fool my Sturm-based rank detectors,
        As eigens flail!

But Matrix, thee I'll not condemn,
Disproving theorems? thou's a gem;
For best-laid schemes in MATLAB's M
        Go oft astray,
An' lea'e us nought but grief unstemm'd,
        In thine array!

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me
My present methods fail on thee:
An' och! with backward errs my eye,
        Wells up in tears!
An' forward errors multiply
        As NaN appears!

"The Mouseholder QR" is Copyright 2009, Tim Davis. Please don't copy-and-paste or hot-link this poem without permission; link to this page instead: http://www.cise.ufl.edu/~davis/Poetry/Mouseholder_QR.html

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. For another translation of this poem (an ode about the budget cuts at the University of Florida), see To a Gator


To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough by Robert Burns (1785)		The Mouseholder QR by Tim Davis (2009)
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! 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 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, sparsest, QR-factored Matrix, O, what a panic's in my math tricks! Thou need na space thine eigs like hay sticks Wi' ditherin' low-bits! I wad be laith to rin a quick fix, Wi' murd'rin' page hits! I'm truly sorry math's inversion Has broke thine eigen's ill condition, An' justifies Nick's ill opinion, Which makes his eyes fix At C, thy poor, low-rank companion, An' fellow matrix! I doubt they'll help, my Givens' swaps; What then? thy matrix diag drops! A round-off eps in all the flops: 'S a sma' request To get an answer when it stops, An' never miss't! Thy wee Householder too, in ruin! Its silly col's the Inf's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' function Green's; A bleak expansion's unconvergin' By standard means! Thou saw the ℜⁿ fields vast, An' weary methods comin fast, No codes ye feared, throughout the past In archived journal-- Till crash! Nick Higham's codes, at last, Out thro' thy kernel. That wee bit heap o' profs' old papers, Has cast no root from thine old capers! Not one's turn'd up, for a' thy vectors, Are badly scaled To fool my Sturm-based rank detectors, As eigens flail! But Matrix, thee I'll not condemn, Disproving theorems? thou's a gem; For best-laid schemes in MATLAB's M Go oft astray, An' lea'e us nought but grief unstemm'd, In thine array! Still thou art blest, compared wi' me My present methods fail on thee: An' och! with backward errs my eye, Wells up in tears! An' forward errors multiply As NaN appears!