Poem by Robert Burns

Despondency

Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 
      I set me down and sigh; 
O life! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 
      To wretches such as I! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 
      What sick’ning scenes appear! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro’, 
      Too justly I may fear! 
            Still caring, despairing, 
                  Must be my bitter doom; 
            My woes here shall close ne’er, 
                  But with the closing tomb! 
 
Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 
      No other view regard! 
Ev’n when the wished end’s denied, 
Yet, while the busy means are plied, 
      They bring their own reward: 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight, 
      Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev’ry sad returning night, 
      And joyless morn the same; 
            You, bustling, and justling, 
                  Forget each grief and pain; 
            I, listless, yet restless, 
                  Find every prospect vain. 
 
How blest the Solitary’s lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 
      Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o’er his newly-gather’d fruits, 
      Beside his crystal well? 
Or, haply, to his ev’ning thought, 
      By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
      A faint collected dream: 
            While praising, and raising 
                  His thoughts to Heav’n on high, 
            As wand’ring, meand’ring, 
                  He views the solemn sky. 
 
Than I, no lonely hermit plac’d 
Where never human footstep trac’d, 
      Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop and just to move, 
      With self-respecting art: 
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 
      Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
      Can want, and yet be blest! 
            He needs not, he heeds not, 
                  Or human love or hate, 
            Whilst I here must cry here 
                  At perfidy ingrate! 
 
Oh! enviable, early days, 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze, 
      To care, to guilt unknown! 
How ill exchang’d for riper times, 
To see the follies, or the crimes, 
      Of others, or my own! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 
      Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
      When manhood is your wish! 
            The losses, the crosses, 
                  That active man engage! 
            The fears all, the tears all, 
                  Of dim-declining age. 

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Lines Written under the Picture of Miss Burns
5. Young Jamie, Pride of A’ the Plain

Anne Brontë Despondency ("I have gone backward in the work")

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