WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth,
Along the banks of Ayr,

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

I spied 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.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? (Began the reverend sage:)

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or, haply, press'd with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading 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 every time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

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.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

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 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 numerous 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'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, 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 wish

E'er planted in my mind?

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

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 to those

That weary-laden mourn!

I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE.

I WANDERED by the brook-side,

I wandered by the mill,

I could not hear the brook flow,

The noisy wheel was still;