Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
54 . Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge
W
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 furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
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. Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling’s pride;— Twice forty times return; And ev’ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. 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 gives Nature’s law. That man was made to mourn. 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. 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. 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! 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. 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? 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! 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!”