For works with similar titles, see Robert Burns.
ROBERT BURNS.
I see amid the fields of AyrA ploughman, who, in foul and fair,Sings at his taskSo clear, we know not if it isThe laverock's song we hear, or his,Nor care to ask.
For him the ploughing of those fieldsA more ethereal harvest yieldsThan sheaves of grain;Songs flush with purple bloom the rye,The plover's call, the curlew's cry,Sing in his brain.
Touched by his hand, the wayside weedBecomes a flower; the lowliest reed.Beside the streamIs clothed with beauty; gorse and grassAnd heather, where his footsteps pass,The brighter seem.
He sings of love, whose flame illumesThe darkness of lone cottage rooms;He feels the force,The treacherous undertow and stressOf wayward passions, and no lessThe keen remorse.
At moments, wrestling with his fate,His voice is harsh, but not with hate;The brush-wood, hungAbove the tavern door, lets fallIts bitter leaf, its drop of gallUpon his tongue.
But still the music of his songRises o'er all elate and strong;Its master-chordsAre Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,Its discords but an interludeBetween the words.
And then to die so young and leaveUnfinished what he might achieve!Yet better sureIs this, than wandering up and downAn old man in a country town,Infirm and poor.
For now he haunts his native landAs an immortal youth; his handGuides every plough;He sits beside each ingle-nook,His voice is in each rushing brookEach rustling bough.
His presence haunts this room to night,A form of mingled mist and lightFrom that far coast.Welcome beneath this roof of mine!Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,Dear guest and ghost!