Robert Burns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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