man was made to mourn: a dirge

  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 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.

  “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.

  “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.

  “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 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.

  “a few seem favourites of fate,

  in pleasure's lap carest;

  yet, think not all the rich and great