When I was an adolescent, my Irish grandfather would recite poetry taught to him by my Scottish grandmother. The poem was usually by Robbie Burns, the Ploughman Poet.

I was always disinterested.

In 1784, Burns wrote Man Was Made to Mourn. This is an excerpt.

…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 heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!…

Not much has changed in almost 250 years. Or forever, I suppose.