Robert Burns

I see amid the fields of Ayr     A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,             Sings at his task     So clear, we know not if it is     The laverock's song we hear, or his,             Nor care to ask.     For him the ploughing of those fields     A more ethereal harvest yields             Than 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 weed     Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed             Beside the stream     Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass     And heather, where his footsteps pass,             The brighter seem.     He sings of love, whose flame illumes     The darkness of lone cottage rooms;             He feels the force,     The treacherous undertow and stress     Of wayward passions, and no less             The keen remorse.     At moments, wrestling with his fate,     His voice is harsh, but not with hate;             The brushwood, hung     Above the tavern door, lets fall     Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall             Upon his tongue.     But still the music of his song     Rises o'er all elate and strong;             Its master-chords     Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,     Its discords but an interlude             Between the words.     And then to die so young and leave     Unfinished what he might achieve!             Yet better sure     Is this, than wandering up and down     An old man in a country town,             Infirm and poor.     For now he haunts his native land     As an immortal youth; his hand             Guides every plough;     He sits beside each ingle-nook,     His voice is in each rushing brook,             Each rustling bough.     His presence haunts this room to-night,     A form of mingled mist and light             From that far coast.     Welcome beneath this roof of mine!     Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,             Dear guest and ghost!