 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
13
MAN WAS NOT MADE TO MOURN.
“'Tis better to be cheerful, than indulge in weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.”
“Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours;
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Shakspeare.
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.
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.
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.
14
“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!
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?
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!
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!
15
“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!
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 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!
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!
16
“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?
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.
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!”
'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!”
17
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!
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!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |