Man Was Not Made To Mourn Poem by Robert Anderson

The sinking sun, aslaunt the hill,
Bade labour quit the plough;
And now in monie a window keek'd
To bid mankind adieu:
When musing on towards a wood,
Where joyous youth was spent,
Beneath an oak a carle stood,
Whase body time had bent.

His locks were silver'd o'er wi' years,
His claithing coarse and bare;
But cheerfu' seem'd his honest heart,
That had known mickle care:
Life's spark, tho' drawing near its end,
Yet cheerfully did burn;
In him, I read an aged friend,
Wha had forgot to mourn.

``Stranger,'' quoth he, ``where wander'st thou,
Amid the dews of eve?
Thine eye, methinks, is wet wi' woe,
Why shun the world to grieve?
O hear a wight, whom age has taught!
Nor mock his years wi' scorn;
Be not in youth by sorrow caught--
Man was not made to mourn!

``For me, I'm puir as puir can be,
Wha ance cou'd boast o' wealth;
And wan and wither'd is this cheek,
Whare late sat blooming health:
On earth I am but fortune's sport,
And wander here forlorn;
What then, life's journey is but short,
And why shou'd mortals mourn?

``'Tis hard to lose a partner dear,
Or parent fondly kind;
'Tis hard to lose a friend sincere,
Of independent mind:
Tho' sweet's the tear by pity shed,
O'er gentle virtue's urn,
Yet be not sorrow's captive led--
Man was not made to mourn!

``Hast thou been robb'd of a' thy kin,
That thus thou heav'st a sigh?
Or griev'st thou for a faithfu' friend,
On whom thou cou'd'st rely?
A friendless brother here behold;
Death a' frae me has torn;
Yet something bids me ay be bold--
Man was not made to mourn!

``Hast thou by hope been aft beguil'd,
Or sail'd down pleasure's stream?
And started back frae ruin's brink,
Like ane wak'd frae a dream?
Tho' monie cares on pleasure wait,
Frae which 'tis wise to turn;
Repentance never is too late,
Then why shou'd mortals mourn?

``Or enviest thou yon pamper'd lord,
Wha rules at pleasure's ball?
Let plenty smile upon his board,
And numbers wait his call;
That wealth is giv'n him but in trust,
Tho' he at puirtith spurn;
The man wha puir dares to be just,
Hath little cause to mourn!

``The pow'r wha rules yon rising orb,
And sits abuin the sky,
Hath giv'n to man an angel form,
But wills that he shall die:
Then what avails all earthly bliss,
Since we to dust return?
A better world there is than this,
And why should mortals mourn?

``A' nature view:--The herds that graze
Alang the meads, rejoice;
The sangsters chaunt their gratefu' lays,
Wi' one accordant voice:
To lordly man is reason giv'n,
Yet oft the poor forlorn,
By madd'ning passions wildly driv'n,
Hopeless, lives but to mourn.

``Howe'er on life's rough sea thou'rt crost,
'Tis folly to despair;
The feeblest bark, when tempest--tost,
Some kind relief may share:
Still cherish hope, that peacefu' guest,
Nor from Religion turn;
Then will no tumult swell thy breast,
Nor thou have cause to mourn!''

Here ceas'd the sage; and sought his way
Along the dark'ning vale;
But oft his meek instructive voice
Seem'd passing on each gale.
Ne'er may I from these rules depart,
Till down to earth I'm borne;
But think, in spite of learned art,
Man was not made to mourn!