What compelled
Robert Burns to write so depressing a
dirge as
Man Was Made to Mourn? Might have been just the depressing nature of his life itself -- after all, he was a
tax collector, in a
broken marriage, and often visited by ill health. Still this
poem was written in 1784, before his
marriage, and before he had left
farming for an
urban life as a poet. The downright
obsession with
death -- particularly as conveyed through the device of an 80 year old man (more than three times Burns' actual age at the writing, though Burns himself would never reach 40) is creepy, if somewhat moving. So without further
delay....
I.
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 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.
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, prest 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.
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 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-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.
VI.
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,
Are
wretched and forlorn.
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
VII.
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!
VIII.
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.
IX.
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?
X.
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!
XI.
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!