The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/Man was made to mourn
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 blastMade fields and forests bare,One ev'ning as I wander'd forthAlong the Banks of Ayr,I spy'd a man, whose aged stepSeem'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 con-strain,Or youthful pleasure's rage?Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast beganTo wander forth, with me, to mournThe miseries of Man.
The sun that overhangs yon moors,Out-spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty lordling's pride;I've seen yon weary winter-sunTwice forty times return;And ev'ry 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 give 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!Show Man was made to mourn.
A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure's lap carest;Yet, think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest.But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry landAre wretched and forlorn;Thro' weary life this lesson learn,That Man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous illsInwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man's inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow-wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful, tho' a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn.
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,By nature's law design'd,Why was an independent wishE'er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty, or scorn?Or why has man the will and pow'rTo make his fellow mourn?
Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the last!The poor, oppressed, honest man,Had never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,The kindest and the best!Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest!The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure tornBut, Oh! a blest relief to thoseThat weary-laden mourn!