Dirge.Man was made to mourn.Whenchill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One evening as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man whose aged stepsSeem’d weary worn with care,His face was furrow’d o’er with age,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 pleasures rage?Or haply prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast begunTo wander forth with me to mournThe miseries of man!The sun that overhangs yon moorsOutspreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty Lordship’s pride;I’ve seen yon weary winter sunTwice forty years return,And every time has added proofThat man was made to mourn!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!Look not alone on youthful prime,On 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!A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest,Yet think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh, what crowds in every landAre wretched and forlorn!Through weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn!Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame,More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to man,Makes countless thousands mourn!See yonder poor o’er-labour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn!If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,By nature’s law design’d,Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?Yet let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad surely ne’er been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,The kindest and the best,Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest;The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn,But oh! a blest relief to thoseWho weary laden mourn!
Dirge.Man was made to mourn.Whenchill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One evening as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man whose aged stepsSeem’d weary worn with care,His face was furrow’d o’er with age,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 pleasures rage?Or haply prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast begunTo wander forth with me to mournThe miseries of man!The sun that overhangs yon moorsOutspreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty Lordship’s pride;I’ve seen yon weary winter sunTwice forty years return,And every time has added proofThat man was made to mourn!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!Look not alone on youthful prime,On 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!A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest,Yet think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh, what crowds in every landAre wretched and forlorn!Through weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn!Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame,More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to man,Makes countless thousands mourn!See yonder poor o’er-labour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn!If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,By nature’s law design’d,Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?Yet let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad surely ne’er been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,The kindest and the best,Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest;The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn,But oh! a blest relief to thoseWho weary laden mourn!
Man was made to mourn.
Whenchill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One evening as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man whose aged stepsSeem’d weary worn with care,His face was furrow’d o’er with age,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 pleasures rage?Or haply prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast begunTo wander forth with me to mournThe miseries of man!The sun that overhangs yon moorsOutspreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty Lordship’s pride;I’ve seen yon weary winter sunTwice forty years return,And every time has added proofThat man was made to mourn!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!Look not alone on youthful prime,On 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!A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest,Yet think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh, what crowds in every landAre wretched and forlorn!Through weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn!Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame,More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to man,Makes countless thousands mourn!See yonder poor o’er-labour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn!If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,By nature’s law design’d,Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?Yet let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad surely ne’er been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,The kindest and the best,Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest;The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn,But oh! a blest relief to thoseWho weary laden mourn!
Whenchill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One evening as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man whose aged stepsSeem’d weary worn with care,His face was furrow’d o’er with age,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 pleasures rage?Or haply prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast begunTo wander forth with me to mournThe miseries of man!The sun that overhangs yon moorsOutspreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty Lordship’s pride;I’ve seen yon weary winter sunTwice forty years return,And every time has added proofThat man was made to mourn!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!Look not alone on youthful prime,On 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!A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest,Yet think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh, what crowds in every landAre wretched and forlorn!Through weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn!Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame,More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to man,Makes countless thousands mourn!See yonder poor o’er-labour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn!If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,By nature’s law design’d,Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?Yet let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad surely ne’er been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,The kindest and the best,Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest;The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn,But oh! a blest relief to thoseWho weary laden mourn!
Whenchill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One evening as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man whose aged stepsSeem’d weary worn with care,His face was furrow’d o’er with age,And hoary was his hair.
Whenchill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged steps
Seem’d weary worn with care,
His face was furrow’d o’er with age,
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 pleasures rage?Or haply prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast begunTo wander forth with me to mournThe miseries of man!
Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?
Began the rev’rend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage?
Or haply prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast begun
To wander forth with me to mourn
The miseries of man!
The sun that overhangs yon moorsOutspreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty Lordship’s pride;I’ve seen yon weary winter sunTwice forty years return,And every time has added proofThat man was made to mourn!
The sun that overhangs yon moors
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty Lordship’s pride;
I’ve seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty years return,
And every time has added proof
That man was made to mourn!
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!
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!
Look not alone on youthful prime,On 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!
Look not alone on youthful prime,
On 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!
A few seem favourites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest,Yet think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest:But oh, what crowds in every landAre wretched and forlorn!Through weary life this lesson learn,That 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 every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn!
Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame,More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to man,Makes countless thousands 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’er-labour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn!
See yonder poor o’er-labour’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 wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow 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 kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad surely ne’er been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that 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 surely ne’er been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,The kindest and the best,Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest;The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn,But oh! a blest relief to thoseWho weary laden mourn!
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 blest relief to those
Who weary laden mourn!