ROBERT BURNS

I see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, 4Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, 4Nor care to ask.

For him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields 4Than sheaves of grain; Songs flush with purple bloom the rye, The plover's call, the curlew's cry, 4Sing in his brain.

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed. 4Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, 4The brighter seem.

He sings of love, whose flame illumes The darkness of lone cottage rooms; 4He feels the force, The treacherous undertow and stress Of wayward passions, and no less 4The keen remorse.

At moments, wrestling with his fate, His voice is harsh, but not with hate; 4The brush-wood, hung Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall 4Upon his tongue.

But still the music of his song Rises o'er all elate and strong; 4Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude 4Between the words.

And then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve! 4Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town, 4Infirm and poor.

For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand 4Guides every plough; He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is in each rushing brook 4Each rustling bough.

His presence haunts this room to night, A form of mingled mist and light 4From that far coast. Welcome beneath this roof of mine! Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, 4Dear guest and ghost!