Poem by Robert Burns

Man Was Made To Mourn

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 was furrow’d o’er with years,
  And hoary was his hair.

‘Young strange; 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 bast 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 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 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 heaven-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 to those
  That weary-laden mourn.’

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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