When chill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One ev’ning, as I wander’d forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spied a man, whose aged stepSeem’d weary, worn with care;His face furrow’d o’er with years,And hoary was his hair.8
“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.16
“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 has added proofs,That man was made to mourn.24
“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.32
“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.40
“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 ev’ry land,All wretched and forlorn,Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,That man was made to mourn.48
“Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heav’n-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,—Man’s inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!56
“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, tho’ a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn.64
“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 pow’rTo make his fellow mourn?72
“Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast:This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the last!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!80
“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 blowFrom pomp and pleasure torn;But, oh! a blest relief for thoseThat weary-laden mourn!”88