Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — 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!