A DIRGE.
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The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of hisletters to Mrs. Dunlop: "I had an old grand-uncle with whom my motherlived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere hedied, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry,while my mother would sing the simple old song of 'The Life and Age ofMan.'" From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of herdistinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copyby recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentimentcoincide closely with "Man was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart,that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.] When chill November's surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One ev'ning as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spy'd a man whose aged stepSeem'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 beganTo wander forth, with me to mournThe miseries of man. "The sun that overhangs yon moors,Out-spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty lordling's pride:I've seen yon weary winter-sunTwice forty times return,And ev'ry time had added proofsThat 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 greatAre 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 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 manMakes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor, o'erlabour'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 never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn! "O 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 thoseThat weary-laden mourn." * * * * *
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