We stopped a day or two at Ayr and drove out to the birthplace of Burns.

The old house that had sheltered him was still there, but its walls now echoed to other voices, and the fields where he had toiled were plowed by other hands.

We saw the stream and banks where he and Mary sat together, the old stone church where the witches held their midnight revels, the two dogs, and the bridge of Ayr.
With Burns, as with Sappho, it was love that awoke his heart to song.

A bonny lass who worked with him in the harvest field inspired his first attempts at rhyme.

Life, with Burns, was one long, hard struggle.