Apparitions > Aloway Kirk, or, Tam o' Shanter, a tale

Man was made to Mourn,
A DIRGE.
WHEN chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning as I wantTred forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy’d a man, whose aged step
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face was farrow’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 wi’ cares end woes,
Too soon thou hast begun
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;