Robert Burns by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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.