‘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 All 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 heaven-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, 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 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.’ THE GLOOMY NIGHT The gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter’d coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The Autumn mourns her ripening corn By early Winter’s ravage torn; Across her placid azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound: These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.