The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      When chill November’s surly blast

      Made fields and forests bare,

      One ev’ning as I wandered forth

      Along the banks of Ayr,

      I spy’d 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 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 had added proofs

      That man was made to mourn.

      “O 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.

      “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!—

      Show man was made to mourn.

      “A few seem favorites of fate,

      In pleasure’s lap carest:

      Yet, think not all the rich and great

      Are likewise truly blest.

      But, oh! what crowds in every 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, though 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 power

      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 best!

      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.”

      I.

      All hail! inexorable lord!

      At whose destruction-breathing word,

      The mightiest empires fall!

      Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,

      The ministers of grief and pain,

      A sullen welcome, all!

      With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye,

      I see each aimed dart;

      For one has cut my dearest tie,

      And quivers in my heart.

      Then low’ring and pouring,

      The storm no more I dread;

      Though thick’ning and black’ning,

      Round my devoted head.

      II.

      And thou grim pow’r, by life abhorr’d,

      While life a pleasure can afford,

      Oh! hear a wretch’s prayer!

      No more I shrink appall’d, afraid;

      I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

      To close this scene of care!

      When shall my soul, in silent peace,

      Resign life’s joyless day;

      My weary heart its throbbings cease,

      Cold mould’ring in the clay?

      No fear more, no tear more,

      To stain my lifeless face;

      Enclasped, and grasped

      Within thy cold embrace!