And, Oh, may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd

Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

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That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart;1 Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.*

A DIRGE.

ZHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

VAR. 'That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart. 1st and 2nd Edit.

*Gilbert Burns informed Dr. Currie, that "several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy 'Man was made to mourn' was composed." Mr. Lockhart has justly observed, that "whatever might be

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 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!

the casual idea that set the Poet to work, it is evident that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom." Burns says, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, that his mother often sang, "The Life and Age of Man ;" and it is certain that the ballad made a deep impression upon his mind. A copy of it, taken from Mrs. Burns' recitation, and printed in Cromek's "Select Scottish Songs," vol. i. p. 6, will be found in the Appendix. Man was made to mourn' immediately precedes 'Winter' in the first and second editions.

Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give 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 is his right.

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair!
Show Man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land
Are wretched and forlorn;

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That Man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,

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Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, Oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

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A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.*

THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me

With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

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* In Burns' Memoranda, dated in August, and apparently in 1784, the following passage is prefixed to these verses: "A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm."