The Beauties of Burn's Poems/Man was Made to Mourn

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see Man was made to mourn (Burns).

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
 Seen'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
 And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
 (Began the rev'rend Sage;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
 Or youthful pleasure rage?
Or haply prest with cares and woes,
 Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me, to mourn
 The miseries of man.

The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
 Out-spreading far and wide,
There hundreds labour to support
 A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter's sun
 Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
 That man was made to mourn.

O man! while in thy early years,
 How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours
 Thy glorious youthful prime.
Alternate follies take the sway,
 Licentious passions burn,
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
 That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
 Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
 Supported is his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
 With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, oh! ill match'd pair,
 Shew man was made to mourn.

A few seem'd favourites of Fate,
 In Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the Rich and Great
 Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
 Are wretched and forlorn!
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
 That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
 Inwoven with our frame;
More pointed still we make ourselves,
 Regret, Remorse, and Shame!
And Man, whose heav'n-erected face,
 The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to Man,
 Makes countless thousands mourn.

See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight,
 So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a Brother of the Earth
 To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly Fellow-worm
 The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife,
 And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
 By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
 E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
 His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will or pow'r
 To make his fellow mourn?

Yet let not that too much, my Son,
 Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
 Is surely not the last:
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
 Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompence
 To comfort those that mourn.

Death, the poor man's dearest friend,
 The kindest and the best,
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
 Are laid with thee at rest.
The Great, the Wealthy, fear thy blow,
 From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh! a blest relief to those
 That weary laden mourn.

 

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