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

Auld brig, where Vandal tourists' tools

Have ribb'd out names that would be known, Are known-known as a herd of fools.

Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines,
With lances level'd here and there—
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!

I hear the milk-maid'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,
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.

O Burns! where bide? where bide ye now? Where are you in this night's full noon, Great master of the pen and plough? Might you not on yon slanting beam Of moonlight, kneeling to the Doon, Descend once to this hallow'd stream? Sure yon stars yield enough of light For heaven to spare your face one night.

O Burns! another name for song, Another name for passion-pride; For love and poesy allied;

For strangely blended right and wrong.

I picture you as one who kneel'd A stranger at his own hearthstone; One knowing all, yet all unknown, One seeing all, yet all conceal'd; The fitful years you linger'd 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 land,
I hear your touching songs of cheer;
The peasant and the lordly peer
Above your honor'd dust strike hands.

A touch of tenderness is shown

In this unselfish love of Ayr,

And it is well, you earn'd it fair;
For all unhelmeted, alone,

You proved a ploughman's honest claim
To battle in the lists of fame;
You earn'd it as a warrior earns
His laurels fighting for his land,
And died-it was your right to go.
O eloquence of silent woe!
The Master leaning reach'd a hand,
And whisper'd, "It is finish'd, Burns!"

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!
You sang in weariness and woe;
You falter'd, and God heard you sing,
Then touch'd your hand and led you so,
You found life's hill-top low, so low,
You cross'd its summit long ere noon.
Thus sooner than one would suppose
Some weary feet do find repose.

水