| |
| I LINGER in the autumn noon, | |
| I listen to the partridge call, | |
| I watch the yellow leaflets fall | |
| And drift adown the dimpled Doon. | |
| I lean me o’er the ivy-grown | 5 |
| Old brig, where Vandal tourists’ tools | |
| Have ribbed out names that would be known, | |
| Are known,—known as a herd of fools. | |
| |
| Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines, | |
| With lances levelled here and there,— | 10 |
| The tinted thorns! the trailing vines! | |
| O braes of Doon! so fond, so fair! | |
| So passing fair, so more than fond! | |
| The Poet’s place of birth beyond, | |
| Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr! | 15 |
| |
| I hear the milkmaid’s twilight song | |
| Come bravely through the storm-bent oaks; | |
| Beyond, the white surf’s sullen strokes | |
| Beat in a chorus deep and strong; | |
| I hear the sounding forge afar, | 20 |
| And rush and rumble of the car, | |
| The steady tinkle of the bell | |
| Of lazy, laden, home-bound cows | |
| That stop to bellow and to browse; | |
| I breathe the soft sea-wind as well, | 25 |
| And now would fain arouse, arise; | |
| I count the red lights in the skies; | |
| I yield as to a fairy spell. | |
| |
| Heard ye the feet of flying horse? | |
| Heard ye the bogles in the air | 30 |
| That clutch at Tam O’Shanter’s mare, | |
| That flies this mossy brig across? * * * * * | |
| O Burns! another name for song, | |
| Another name for passion,—pride; | |
| For love and poesy allied; | 35 |
| For strangely blended right and wrong. | |
| |
| I picture you as one who kneeled | |
| A stranger at his own hearthstone; | |
| One knowing all, yet all unknown, | |
| One seeing all, yet all concealed; | 40 |
| The fitful years you lingered here, | |
| A lease of peril and of pain; | |
| And I am thankful yet again | |
| The gods did love you, ploughman! peer! | |
| |
| In all your own and other lands, | 45 |
| I hear your touching songs of cheer; | |
| The peasant and the lordly peer | |
| Above your honored dust strike hands. | |
| |
| A touch of tenderness is shown | |
| In this unselfish love of Ayr, | 50 |
| And it is well, you earned it fair; | |
| For all unhelmeted, alone, | |
| You proved a ploughman’s honest claim | |
| To battle in the lists of fame; | |
| You earned it as a warrior earns | 55 |
| His laurels fighting for his land, | |
| And died,—it was your right to go. | |
| O eloquence of silent woe! | |
| The Master leaning reached a hand, | |
| And whispered, “It is finished, Burns!” | 60 |
| |
| O sad, sweet singer of a Spring! | |
| Yours was a chill, uncheerful May, | |
| And you knew no full days of June; | |
| You ran too swiftly up the way, | |
| And wearied soon, so over-soon! | 65 |
| You sang in weariness and woe; | |
| You faltered, and God heard you sing, | |
| Then touched your hand and led you so, | |
| You found life’s hill-top low, so low, | |
| You crossed its summit long ere noon. | 70 |
| Thus sooner than one would suppose | |
| Some weary feet will find repose. | |
| |
