"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-matched pair!-- Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, In Pleasure's lap caressed; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But oh! what crowds in every land Are wretched and forlorn! Through 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 heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor o'er-labored wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law designed, 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 power To make his fellow mourn? "Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of humankind Is surely not the best! The poor, oppressèd, 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 agèd 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!" GREEN GROW THE RASHES There's naught but care on every han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An 't werena for the lasses, O? CHORUS Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spent Were spent amang the lasses, O! The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O; An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O; The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O.