Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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       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!”