When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare.
Man was made to Mourn.
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.
Man was made to Mourn.
[[447]]
![[447]](#2001010581228339517_447.png.id-8361562973525905160.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new.
The Cotter's Saturday Night.
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.