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　　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 spied a man, whose aged step

　　Seem'd weary, worn with care;

　　His face 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's 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,

　　Where hundreds labour to support

　　A haughty lordling's pride;—

　　I've seen yon weary winter-sun

　　Twice 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 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 in 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 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 ev'ry land,

　　All 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, tho' 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 and pow'r

　　To make his fellow mourn?

　　“Yet, let not this 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 recompense

　　To comfort those that mourn!

　　“O 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 for those

　　That weary-laden mourn!” Poems and Songs of Robert Burns