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 every 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….

 

Yet let not (t)his 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 who mourn!

 

O death! The poor man’s dearest friend,

The kindest and the best!

 

Robert Burns (1759-96), 1786.