......Why did half these men not make to the seats of power?? Could have prevented lots!



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, A DIRGE


I

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wand'red forth
Along the banks of Aire,
I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years
And hoary was his hair.


II

'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, pressed with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.


III

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.


IV

Oh man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending 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.


V

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-matched pair!)
Show man was made to mourn


VI

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap caressed;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blessed.
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Through weary life this lesson learn --
That man was made to mourn!


VII

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Enwoven 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!


VIII

See yonder poor, o'erlaboured 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.


IX

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,
By nature's law designed,
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?


X

Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of humankind
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!


XI

Oh 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 blessed relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!'





Robert Burns (1759--96)