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21
Man was made to Mourn.
A DIRGE.
WHEN chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning as I wand'red forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy’d 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.
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning as I wand'red forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy’d 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 wand’rest thou !
(Began the rev’rend Sage;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful Pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest wi’ cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast begun
To wander forth with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.
(Began the rev’rend Sage;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful Pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest wi’ cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast begun
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;
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;
