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ROBERT BURNS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: All hail, o nithsdale's furrow'd field, a marathon art thou
Last Line: O grandest city of the world, for you have burns's grave!
Subject(s): Burns, Robert (1759-1796); Poetry & Poets


ALL hail, O Nithsdale's furrow'd field, a Marathon art thou;
The fire of God in his great heart, of Genius on his brow,
Thy patriot bard strode o'er thy sward, his triumph car the plough!
The laverock in the early dawn, the merle at evening grey,
Sang paeans as the ploughman trod his more than laurell'd way;
And the red ridge of Scottish soil behind him grandly lay, 'd with the daisy's
"crimson tip," the "rough burr-thistle's" head,
And rough print of the ploughman's shoe -- shoe of the deathless dead.

'Tis o'er, the rig is dark with night, the "lingering star's" on high,
And Song-land's gain'd another wreath of flow'rs that never die.

In Nithsdale, as a dreamy boy, in wild ecstatic turns,
I've grasp'd the plough to follow, rapt, thy shade, O Robert Burns!
As "spretty nowes have rairt and risk't" I've seen thee standing nigh,
'Mid visions of the Throne of Song too grand for mortal eye:
The hills around burn'd into verse, an anthem vast and dim,
The "fragrant birk" an idyll grew, the "stibble field" a hymn!

O Sword, rust o'er thy mighty dead, pent in their funeral urns,
Plough, by Elisha sanctified, and glorified by Burns,
Thine is no roll of tears and groans, the dying and the dead,
Thou writest on the wintry fields, the prophecy of Bread --
I'll drive my share o'er vanquish'd Want, my coulter's edge uprears
The banners of the yellow corn, the rye's unnumber'd spears.
God speed thy "horns" -- no altar horns so sacred are to me,
The Prophet and the Muse of Fire their mantle bore to thee!
Yet, would a tyrant weld our chains? then, Victory or the Grave --
The trumpet blast of "Scots wha hae" will make the coward brave!
Then onward, Valour, "red-wat-shod," -- glory to him who dies!
Be his eternal infamy, the "traitor knave" who flies!

Dumfries, thy cold hands hold his urn, thou guard'st his iron sleep,
O shrine that draws the universe to worship and to weep!
What tribute grand of brass or stone can thy poor hands bestow?
What bronze or marble worthy him who lies so cold and low?
Of the brave man whose fight is fought, whose weapon's sheath'd, whose banner's
furl'd,
Though still his fire and force of soul throbs in the veins of half the world:
Australia loves him, India too, as though he had but died yestreen;
Columbia knows the Banks o' Doon, and Afric sings of Bonnie Jean!

Hast seen athwart the midnight stars a cloud its shadow fling?
Hast seen the stain from the cage's bars upon the eagle's wing?
Impeach I will not; but, Dumfries, I cannot do him wrong,
Thy street-mire stain'd the singing-robe of the great King of Song:
Look sorrowing back on the grey hairs too early o'er his brow,
And, grateful, what he lack'd in bread, give him in garlands now.
* * * * * * * * *
Joy in thy solemn heritage, breaking Oblivion's wave,
O grandest city of the world, for you have Burns's grave!





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