ROBERT BURNS
                                _A Play_


                                   BY
                            JOHN DRINKWATER


                             [Illustration]


                          BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                        HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
                                  1925




              COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY


All dramatic rights in this play are reserved by the author.

The music for _Robert Burns_ has been composed by Frederick Austin, and
the play may not be performed without this.


                          The Riverside Press
                       CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
                         PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.




                                  FOR
                                 DAVID




THE CHARACTERS IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE ARE


  NELL
  ROBERT BURNS
  HOLY WILLIE
  LANDLORD AT THE INN
  TAM LAURIE
  MICHAEL
  JAMES ARMOUR
  A FACTOR
  AN OLD BEGGAR
  A DOXY
  ANOTHER BEGGAR WOMAN
  GAVIN HAMILTON
  A SHERIFF’S OFFICER
  JOHN ANDERSON
  MRS. STEWART OF STAIR
  THE DUCHESS OF GORDON
  MISS TAYLOR
  MRS. FERGUSON
  MRS. MONTGOMERY
  WALTER SCOTT
  MR. ROBERTSON
  PROFESSOR FERGUSON
  DR. BLACKLOCK
  LORD MUIR
  BALIOL WHITE
  SAM OGILVIE
  NEIL SIMPSON
  ‘SHY’ DUNCAN
  MEG
  GIRL AT ELLISLAND
  JEAN ARMOUR
  WILLIE CAMPBELL
  MRS. FERGUS
  M’PHERSON
  MR. FENTON




ROBERT BURNS


SCENE I

 _A fine warm afternoon in late winter. A green hillock at the edge of
 a ploughland. A peasant girl, with mischief in her movement, runs on,
 and looks from the hillock up and down the furrows. Then she fixes her
 gaze on some object in the distance, and after a moment sings_--

_Nell_:

    The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad,
      His mind is ever true, jo;
    His garters knit below his knee,
      His bonnet it is blue, jo.

        Then up wi’ it a’ my ploughman lad,
          And hey my merry ploughman.
        Of a’ the trades that I do ken,
          Commend me to the ploughman.

    My ploughman he comes hame at e’en,
      He’s aften wat and weary;
    Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
      And gae to bed, my dearie!

        Then up wi’ it a’ my ploughman lad,
          And hey my merry ploughman.
        Of a’ the trades that I do ken,
          Commend me to the ploughman.

 [_As the song is closing the approach of plough-harness is heard, and_
 ROBERT BURNS, _driving, appears at the back of the scene. He sees_
 NELL _and draws the plough up_.]

_Burns_: Nell! there’s a good lass now.

_Nell_: Oughtn’t you to go on with your ploughing?

_Burns_ (_turning_): To please you?

_Nell_: That’s as may be.

_Burns_ (_coming back_): Pretty Nell.

_Nell_: You think I’m pretty?

_Burns_ (_taking her in his arms and kissing her_): Pretty, pretty
Nell.

_Nell_ (_sitting on the grass_): I could be pretty if you had some
money.

_Burns_: Oh, I’ll have money yet.

_Nell_: But by then I shan’t be able to be pretty any more.

_Burns_ (_sitting beside her_): But you are, Nell--pretty as a fair-day.

_Nell_: A girl wants ribbons and laces and all that. Look at my
frock--why, the quality’s serving women would laugh at it.

_Burns_: Their ignorant pride, Nell. I don’t laugh at it--I think it’s
like a queen’s dress--you make it look like that. I thought that the
first day, barley-gleaning--you remember? The way you walked, and then
stooping--willow rods and birds’ wings and the way a star falls. What’s
a dress to all that, my dearie?

                                                           [_He sings._]

    O, once I lov’d a bonnie lass,
      Ay, and I love her still;
    And, whilst that virtue warms my breast,
      I’ll love my handsome Nell.

    She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
      Both decent and genteel:
    An’ then there’s something in her gait
      Gars ony dress look weel.

    A gaudy dress and gentle air
      May slightly touch the heart;
    But it’s innocence and modesty
      That polishes the dart.

    ’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
      ’Tis this enchants my soul!
    For absolutely in my breast
      She reigns without control.

_Nell_: And all that is for me?

_Burns_: You like it?

_Nell_: Yes, Robbie. But what was that about innocence and modesty?

_Burns_: That’s for the Sabbath, maybe.

_Nell_: It’s not the Sabbath to-day.

_Burns_ (_accepting the invitation_): My pretty, pretty Nell. (_As he
kisses her._)

                              [_After a long embrace_, BURNS _repeats_.]

    _Burns_:

    She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
      Both decent and genteel:
    An’ then there’s something in her gait
      Gars ony dress look weel.

 [_As he finishes, the music announces the coming of_ HOLY WILLIE, _the
 canting parson of Scotch bigotry, upon whose appearance the lovers
 separate_, NELL _a little disconcerted_, BURNS _returning to his
 plough_. HOLY WILLIE _sees them, with a great gesture of disapproval.
 When they have gone, he sings the following part of his prayer._]

    _Holy Willie_:

    O Thou that in the heavens does dwell,
    Wha, as it pleases best Thysel’,
    Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
          A’ for Thy glory,
    And no’ for ony guid or ill
          They’ve done before Thee!

    Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
    For here Thou hast a chosen race:
    But God confound their stubborn face,
          And blast their name,
    Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
          And public shame.

    But, Lord, remember me and mine,
    Wi’ mercies temporal and divine,
    That I for grace and gear may shine,
          Excell’d by nane,
    And a’ the glory shall be Thine,
          Amen, Amen!

 [_Towards the end of the prayer_, BURNS _has come back, and stands
 listening; as the prayer closes_, HOLY WILLIE _turns and sees him_.]

_Holy Willie_: Young man, young man, I do not like your ways.

_Burns_: I don’t like your prayer.

_Holy Willie_: You blaspheme against Holy Kirk.

_Burns_: You blaspheme against God.

_Holy Willie_: Beware the wrath of the ministry, young man.

_Burns_: Beware His wrath on holy upstarts, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Shameless, shameless. With your doxy there. Who was she?

_Burns_: A good girl, minister. All affection, and young, and kisses,
and likes a song.

_Holy Willie_: A hussy--a woman of evil, I doubt not.

_Burns_: And the greatest of these is charity.

_Holy Willie_: Profane not that holy word.

_Burns_: Meditate upon it, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Who was the wench?

_Burns_: A sweet ankle--did you notice maybe?

_Holy Willie_: Dare you speak so--to me?

_Burns_: Aye--we are all tinder, completely tinder. Some are ashamed of
it, that’s all.

_Holy Willie_: I am not ashamed--that is, I have no cause for shame.

_Burns_: And some of us give praise for all good gifts--a sweet ankle,
believe me, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Have a care of the pit, and the everlasting flames.

_Burns_: They’ll come or not as it may be. You’ll not be the judge,
minister, there’s hope in that. And the lasses are here, and a man’s
heart beats, and you can’t frown us out of it, minister. Look at us,
labouring and wearing ourselves and near starving often, and are we to
take nothing that bright eyes and fond lips and white young arms may
offer? Who talks of profaning, minister!

                                                           [_He sings._]

    There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
      In every hour that passes, O:
    What signifies the life o’ man,
      An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O?

        Green grow the rashes, O!
          Green grow the rashes, O!
        The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
          Are spent amang the lasses, O.

    The warl’ly race may riches chase,
      An’ riches still may fly them, O:
    An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
      Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

    But gi’e me a canny hour at e’en,
      My arms about my dearie, O:
    An’ warl’ly cares, an’ warl’ly men,
      May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O.

    For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
      Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
    The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw
      He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.

    Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
      Her noblest work she classes, O:
    Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
      An’ then she made the lasses, O.

        Green grow the rashes, O!
          Green grow the rashes, O!
        The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
          Are spent amang the lasses, O.

_Holy Willie_: But think of that poor young girl.

_Burns_: I think of her, and think, and think--goddesses, all of them.

_Holy Willie_: I fear you will be damned.

_Burns_: Then I’ll be gallantly damned, minister.

_Holy Willie_: A stubborn heart. She would listen, maybe, though you are
deaf. Again I ask you, young man, Who was she? I will counsel her to
prudent godliness. Who was she?

_Burns_: A sweet ankle, and an inviting waist--no, I wouldn’t trust you
with her, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Lewd and idolatrous! Son of Belial! If thy tongue offend
thee pluck it out--offensive tongue! Disgrace among us, profligate and
wanton, beware the end!

                                                              [_Sings._]

    But, Lord, remember me and mine,
    Wi’ mercies temporal and divine,
    That I for grace and gear may shine,
            Excell’d by nane,
    An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine,
            Amen, Amen!

                                                            [_He goes._]

_Burns_: Beware the end. Had he been a cleaner gospeller, that might be
a thing to consider. But the man’s rotten--who is to be preached at by
such a one? But, the end. Holy Willie there maybe has the truth of it,
for all he’s a false and snivelling prophet. A pretty face, and I’m all
song, all springtime. Is that peace in the end? Pretty, pretty Nell.
But I’ll sing a song for Scotland yet before I founder--cottar though
I be. A song to remember on the highways--aye, and in Courts too. But
continence, Robin, or they will consume you.

    O, were I on Parnassus hill,
    Or had of Helicon my fill.

I must mend, indeed, indeed. And they are lovely, but deceivers--so
positive and sly--deceivers--I’ll forswear them. I’ll be a monk, and
none but John Barleycorn for merry company. Holy Willie is a bad man,
but he spoke truth I fear, though by rule of the Kirk’s thumb. Forswear
them, Robin.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    Deluded swain, the pleasure
      The fickle fair can give thee
    Is but a fairy treasure--
      Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

    The billows on the ocean,
      The breezes idly roaming,
    The clouds’ uncertain motion--
      They are but types of woman.

    O! art thou not ashamed
      To doat upon a feature?
    If man thou would’st be named,
      Despise the silly creature.

    Go, find an honest fellow;
      Good claret set before thee:
    Hold on till thou art mellow,
      And then to bed in glory.

The plough, and John Barleycorn--once in a week just--or twice maybe,
and I’ll be cold to all glances till wedding-time, if it comes.

 [_He moves back towards the plough. As he does so_, NELL _is heard
 singing, and he stops_.]

_Nell_:

    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
    Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

                                                        [_She appears._]

_Burns_: Nay, I did not whistle. I must to the plough. I am all new in
resolution.

_Nell_ (_singing_):

    Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me;
    Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me;
    Come down the back stairs, and let naebody see,
    And come as ye were na coming to me.

_Burns_: I’m not courting any longer, I tell you. I’m to beware of
lasses, Nell, henceforth. I’m ice, I tell you.

_Nell_ (_moving away, singing_):

    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
    Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

 [_She has gone._ BURNS _makes another move to the plough, then turns
 suddenly, and calls_--]

_Burns_: Nell--Nell.

_Nell_ (_singing_):

    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad....

 [BURNS _whistles the rest of the tune through, and_ NELL _is with him
 again_.]

_Nell_: That black-coated, lean-bodied, yellow-faced gowk to scare you.
Cracked metal like that to turn you off, a pretty man like you, Robin,
with your kisses and your rhymes. A snivelling man, a watery-eyed
man--and bawdy too, I know him. He’s bad Sabbath, a leering, lecherous,
safe man--he would and he would not afore God--oh yes, I know him. And
you’ll let him trip you up, spoil your stanzas--for shame, Robin.

_Burns_: You ran away, Nell, and left me alone against him.

_Nell_: Ran away--yes I ran away--no Master Sanctimony for me. Ask
Annie Leslie.

_Burns_: I gave him no civil flattery--I can read him as well as you or
Annie. But I fell to thinking afterwards.

_Nell_: To have done with courting.

_Burns_: Till I’m for wedding.

_Nell_: But I want no talk of weddings. Let that bide. Spring’s coming,
and it’s a clear day, and here are we, and you’re a man, Robin, to make
holy rags there look the famine he is.

_Burns_: It was a bad resolution.

_Nell_: A miserable resolution, Robin.

_Burns_: I discard it.

_Nell_: You whistled and I came to ye, my lad.

_Burns_: Love shall keep me company with John Barleycorn, Nell,

    Until I’m on Parnassus Hill
    And had of Helicon my fill.

_Nell_: You’re ice!

_Burns_: Then I’m a rogue. It was a spleen of Holy Willie’s begetting.
Kiss me.

_Nell_: Are there kisses on the Parnassus Hill you talk of?

_Burns_: Immortal kisses.

_Nell_ (_in his arms_): Take me with you.

_Burns_: I’ll take you, Nell. It shall be our Parnassus Hill.

 [_He sings, and, in the repetitions_, NELL _with him_.]

    O my luve is like a red, red rose,
      That’s newly sprung in June;
    O my luve is like the melodie
      That’s newly played in tune.
    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
      So deep in luve am I;
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
      Till a’ the seas gang dry.

    Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
      And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
      While the sands o’ life shall run.
    And fare thee weel, my only luve!
      And fare thee weel a while!
    And I will come again, my luve,
      Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS


SCENE II

 _A late spring evening two years later. The Inn at Mauchline. The room
 is lamplit._

 _A number of villagers are seated round the room, drinking, being
 served by the landlord, and_ NELL, _now the maid of the Inn_. BURNS
 _is standing on a chair, singing, all joining in every other verse_.

    _Burns_:

    There was three kings into the east,
      Three kings both great and high;
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
      John Barleycorn should die.

    _Chorus_:

    They took a plough and plough’d him down,
      Put clods upon his head,
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
      John Barleycorn was dead.

    _Burns_:

    But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
      And show’rs began to fall;
    John Barleycorn got up again,
      And sore surpris’d them all.

    _Chorus_:

    The sober Autumn enter’d mild,
      When he grew wan and pale;
    His bending joints and drooping head
      Show’d he began to fail.

    _Burns_:

    They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,
      And cut him by the knee;
    Then tied him fast upon a cart,
      Like a rogue for forgerie.

    _Chorus_:

    They wasted o’er a scorching flame
      The marrow of his bones;
    But a miller us’d him worst of all--
      For he crush’d him ’tween two stones.

    _Burns_:

    And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,
      And drank it round and round;
    And still the more and more they drank,
      Their joy did more abound.

    _Chorus_:

    Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
      Each man a glass in hand;
    And may his great posterity
      Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

                          [_There is general acclamation and toasting._]

_Burns_ (_jumping down from his chair, a little ‘flown’_): Fill
up--fill up! John Barleycorn is Scotland’s king, and shall be so for
ever! Fill up! There’s a pretty Nell. How’s that for a song, landlord?

_The Landlord_: Very good sentiments, Robin. Let all honest men
prosper, say I.

_Burns_: Meaning, most noble landlord, all honest men to be John
Barleycorn’s liege subjects--that pay tribute, mark you. Drink up, Tam
Laurie--why so doomsday, man?

_Tam_ (_a meek, hard-driven little man_): It’s the cursed factors,
Robin. They’ll not let a man scrape supper gruel from his toil.

_Burns_: Blast and misfortune to them! Craft and fat bellies--a flea
on a dog’s tail is a respectable work of God beside a factor. A toast,
friends, fellow-citizens of Mauchline--‘To hell with all factors.’

                                 [_The toast is drunk with enthusiasm._]

_A lean but well-to-do Farmer_: That’s all very well, but rents have to
be paid.

_Burns_: Friends--another toast--‘To hell with all rents.’

                                                          [_And again._]

_Burns_: Michael, you speak as a man the Lord prospers.

_Michael_: I speak as one who is diligent.

_Burns_: Diligent, quotha! A man left a fat inheritance and his croft
all favoured by nature, and he talks diligence. Have you sweated,
Michael, with your share always ringing on the stones, and your
breeches letting in the cold blast behind you, and your boots full
of March rain, and your belly empty, and a bare table to go home to
when dark comes, and a gap in the roof above you as wide as a lassie’s
embrace? Have you done these things, and kept the heart true steel
within you, like Tam Laurie there?

_Tam_: I’ve to quit come Tuesday week.

_Burns_: To quit, Michael--do you hear that? Do you know what quitting
means? You stand out there under the sky, and your steps may as well
go this way as that, for you have no door in the world, and a ditch to
starve in is all you can borrow. And rents must be paid. To hell with
such rents I say!

_Michael_: I’ll not listen to such heresies in the state. Respectable
houses are not safe when tongues are loose like this. But the Lord will
look to his own.

_Burns_: You put off settlement with the Lord as long as you can,
Michael Johnson--you’ll be wise.

_Michael_: They say that Mr. Armour will not be put off, though.

 [BURNS _is suddenly silenced by this, and with his parting score_
 MICHAEL _goes, two or three of the others following him. One or two
 of the party are now asleep, two or three others talking together_,
 TAM _sitting by himself. The landlord is smoking, and_ NELL _cleaning
 pots_.]

_Tam_: He was always bitter to poverty. Thank you, Robin, for speaking.

_Nell_: What’s that about Mr. Armour?

_Burns_: They’ve beaten me, Nell. I’ve got to go.

_Nell_: How’s that?

_Burns_ (_sitting at a table near to us, in dejection._ NELL _comes to
him, still working. Some of the others at another table are playing
cards_): We were friends, Nell, you and I.

_Nell_: Good friends, Robin.

_Burns_: Parnassus Hill, you remember?

_Nell_: You and I, and love, and John Barleycorn--yes.

_Burns_: Then there was my Mary; she died. Then Jean came. You didn’t
scold.

_Nell_: I knew they would come. I told you I was not for wedding.

_Burns_: Jean is a mother.

_Nell_: You?

_Burns_: Yes.

_Nell_: You’ll wed her then, so why grieve? She’s good, and she’s
comely.

_Burns_: I love her, Nell, and I’d be proud of her. But I’m not to wed
her.

_Nell_: But that’s not honest, Robin.

_Burns_: They won’t let me.

_Nell_: Who won’t?

_Burns_: That’s what Michael meant. Mr. Armour. He’s forbidden it. I’m
not genteel enough. He says I’m profligate. He’s right I dare say. But
that, it’s bitter, that. He’d rather have his girl be shamed alone than
be shamed by wedding me. And I can’t pay as I’m ordered (_he shows her
a paper_), so it’s jail or leaving Scotland. John Barleycorn is all
now. Fill my pot, Nell.

                                 [NELL _does so, and brings it to him_.]

_Nell_: What will you do?

_Burns_: I came here to forget it. I’m going. Jamaica--that’s a world’s
journey off, Nell. Jean, and Scotland--I’m losing both.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    O thou pale Orb, that silent shines,
      While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
    Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,
      And wanders here to wail and weep!
    With Woe I nightly vigils keep,
      Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
    And mourn, in lamentation deep,
      How life and love are all a dream.

 [_As he is ending the song, three men come to the door. One is_ JAMES
 ARMOUR, JEAN’S _father, another a_ FACTOR, _and with them is_ HOLY
 WILLIE. _The_ FACTOR _goes to the counter and drinks._]

_Armour_: So you can sing in the midst of the desolation you’ve caused.

_Burns_: It was no happy song, Mr. Armour.

_Armour_: There’s a warrant coming down the road for you.

_Burns_: But I cannot pay, I told you. I’ll work for Jean, but you’ll
not let me.

_Armour_: I will not. I want no creeping seducer for a son-in-law.

_Burns_: That’s--I’ll not say what it is, Mr. Armour. Ask Jean. She
loves me. We’re proud of it, if you would let us be.

_Armour_: Proud of it, you Barbary sheep! The girl’s a scandal to my
name, but she’s not for you. Let her be proud of it alone.

_Holy Willie_: I told you of this, young man. I preached the light to
you.

_Burns_: Good counsel from you would corrupt the saints, minister. Why
won’t you let me wed Jean, Mr. Armour?

_Armour_: I came to give no reasons, Robert Burns. I came to see you
knew the choice rightly. You can pay, or you can feel handcuffs, or you
can go where you’ll never offend honest Scots eyes with the sight of
you more.

_Holy Willie_: And whichever you choose, you’ll first do penance in
kirk for an incontinent sinner. It is the kirk’s will.

_Burns_: Let him that is without sin, minister--but let that go.
Again, Mr. Armour, I ask it in good faith, let me take Jean to church.
There’ll be no penance in that, but hope and goodwill, I promise it.

_Armour_: You’ve no virtue, but if you were made of it, I’ld say no
still. You’ve not rank enough for the Armours.

_Burns_: Rank, rank, rank! Then destroy her and destroy me, and ask
your holy friend here to pray God to show you your own black and proud
and silly heart. Fill up my pot, Nell.

 [_As she does so, the_ FACTOR _is about to leave, but seeing_ TAM
 LAURIE, _goes across to him_.]

_The Factor_: Have you found that money, Laurie?

_Tam_: It’s not for finding.

_The Factor_: It’s for spending, it seems.

_Tam_: I’ve had but two pots, and not to my score.

_The Factor_: Tuesday week then. I hope you’ll have joy of your travels.

_Tam_: It’s a poor thing to fleer at a man that’s beaten.

_Burns_ (_crossing, pot in hand_): A dirty thing, Master Factor, a
thing that makes old Nickie-ben laugh down among the sulphur the
minister is so fond of gabbing about. And before I’m gone, I’ll stand
up and prophesy among you. Mr. Armour, you’re a little man, in a little
place, and for your peddling bit of dignity and self-esteem you’ll
break your girl’s heart and ruin me. Minister, you’ll sit on the Lord’s
right hand till He turns round and catches you there. And you, Factor,
will sit on a lord’s right hand till he turns round and finds your
fingers in his pocket. And you’re all upright pillars of repute, praise
the Lord, Amen. And Tam here is a pauper, and I’m forfeit, and before
the God that you blaspheme with your devil’s work, we’ll take our
chance at the day of judgment against the lot of you. He’ll have mercy
on us, for we are sinners, but I doubt he’ll take no notice of you at
all, and you’ll find it a wide place to wander in and learn your lesson.

 [_Outside is heard the sound of music and song, coming from a band of
 Beggars passing along the road._]

_Burns_ (_going to the window, and looking out_): Listen to
them--vagabonds, unwashed, thieves perhaps, and kiss who kiss can. But
they’re free, and they’re honester than your sort, righter commanders.
(_Opening the door._) Come in, come in--a pot apiece for a song, my
hearties--come and teach the gentlemen to say their grace.

                                      [_The Beggars crowd at the door._]

_Armour_: You think we’ll stay with you and your dirty rapscallions. By
your leave--

 [_He_, _the_ FACTOR, _and_ HOLY WILLIE _move to go_.]

_Burns_: No, no--persuade them friends. (TAM _and the others_, NELL
_and the_ LANDLORD _assisting, hold them back, while_ BURNS _cries to
the Beggars_.) Come in--come in--serve them, Nell, my dear, full pots
all round.

 [_He locks the door, and_ NELL _hands round the full pots_.]

_Armour_: This shall be a case for the Justice.

_Burns_: Justice is a blind wench, Mr. Armour--and it would be a bonny
jest for the parish, wouldn’t it? I think we shall swallow it. Now, you
jolly beggars, drink and sing.

 [_The_ FIRST BEGGAR, _an old man in soldier’s rags, a girl in his
 arms, sings_.]

    I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
    And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
    This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
    When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.

              Lal de daudle, etc.

    And now tho’ I must beg with a wooden arm and leg
    And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my limbs,
    I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
    As when I us’d in scarlet to follow a drum.

              Lal de daudle, etc.

 [_He is followed, after drinking and laughter, by the girl in his
 arms, who sings._]

    I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
    And still my delight is in proper young men;
    Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
    No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.

              Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

    The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
    To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
    His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
    Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

              Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

    But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,
    The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
    He ventur’d the soul, and I risket the body,
    ’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

              Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

    Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
    The regiment at large for a husband I got;
    From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
    I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.

              Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

    And now I have lived--I know not how long,
    And still I can join in a cup and a song;
    But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
    Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

              Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

 [_Then comes a dark, tragic woman, who has been sitting apart._]

    A Highland lad my love was born,
    The lalland laws he held in scorn;
    But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
    My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

    _Chorus_

      Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
      Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
      There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
      Was match for my John Highlandman.

    With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,
    An’ guid claymore down by his side,
    The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
    My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

      Sing hey, etc.

    They banish’d him beyond the sea,
    But ere the bud was on the tree,
    Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
    Embracing my John Highlandman.

      Sing hey, etc.

    But, och! they catch’d him at the last,
    And bound him in a dungeon fast;
    My curse upon them every one,
    They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.

      Sing hey, etc.

    And now a widow, I must mourn
    The pleasures that will ne’er return;
    Nae comfort but a hearty can,
    When I think on John Highlandman.

      Sing hey, etc.

 [_As she finishes, the_ FIRST BEGGAR, _leaving his doxy, goes up to
 her and sings_.]

    Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
    And go wi’ me and be my dear,
    An’ then your every care and fear
      May whistle owre the lave o’t.

    _Chorus_

        I am a fiddler to my trade,
        An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
        The sweetest still to wife or maid,
          Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

    But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
    And while I kittle hair on thairms,
    Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,
      May whistle owre the lave o’t.

        I am, etc.

 [_At the conclusion she sinks into his arms, and there is an
 altercation between the two Beggar women, the_ OLD BEGGAR _quieting
 them, and then there are cries from all to_ BURNS.]

Now, Master, a song for a song, a taste of your quality, good liquor
makes good tunes, a song, a song!

_Burns_ (_leaps on to the table with_): Here’s for you, then, my
hearties.

                                                          [_And sings._]

    I am a Bard of no regard,
      Wi’ gentle folks, an’ a’ that:
    But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
      Frae town to town I draw that.

    _Chorus_

        For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
        An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
        I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
          I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

    Great love I bear to a’ the fair,
      Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;
    But lordly will, I hold it still
      A mortal sin to thraw that.

        For a’ that, etc.

    Their tricks an’ craft ha’e put me daft,
      They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;
    But clear your decks, and here’s the Sex!
      I like the jades for a’ that.

    _Chorus_

        For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
          And twice as muckle’s a’ that;
        My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
          They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.

 [_This is received with an uproar of acclamation. The doxy climbs up
 on to the table beside_ BURNS, _and shouts above the din_, ‘A chorus,
 a chorus, and then for the road!’ _and they sing in chorus_.]

    A fig for those by law protected!
      Liberty’s a glorious feast!
    Courts for cowards were erected,
      Churches built to please the priest.

    Life is all a variorum,
      We regard not how it goes;
    Let them cant about decorum
      Who have characters to lose.

 [_The Beggars depart, to the music that brought them_, BURNS
 _exchanging farewells as they pass through the door. The villagers
 follow them, except one lying in a drunken sleep on the floor._ BURNS,
 ARMOUR, HOLY WILLIE, _the_ FACTOR, TAM, _the_ LANDLORD, _and_ NELL
 _are all that remain. The room is now in confusion, filled with
 fumes, the floor stained with liquor, tankards lying about, a litter
 of straw and oddments of rags left by the Beggars._]

_Burns_: And that, your reverences, is life too. They’ll all come to
the Day of Judgment with the rest of us. Miserable sinners, God bless
them. Is there anyone to say God bless you, think you?

_Armour_: Let us pass.

_Burns_: Aye, in a moment. That tune has just put another rhyme to
shape--I’ld have you hear it before you go.

_Holy Willie_: You heard what Mr. Armour told you. There’s a warrant
coming this way. Now for the reckoning.

_The Landlord_ (_coming forward_): Aye, the reckoning.

_Burns_ (_his hand going uselessly to his pockets_): Yes, landlord. How
much is it?

_The Landlord_: Four shillings and a penny.

_Burns_: Four--not a penny even. There now. Wouldn’t one of you
gentlemen--?

_Holy Willie_: For shame, young man.

_Burns_: It was a good mumming, worth it surely. Mr. Armour, it would
be an act of grace--a soul might almost be saved for four shillings and
a penny.

_The Landlord_: Let it be, let it be. I’d have none of their pence.
Wipe it out, Nell.

                                              [NELL _cleans the slate_.]

_Burns_: That’s honour for you, true bred out of Elysium. I have it all
in my head now. You with your rank and your rents and your holy purses
and your grand little airs, listen.

 [_To the tune of_ ‘I am a bard of no regard,’ _he sings, in a passion
 of conviction now_.]

    Is there, for honest poverty,
      That hings his head, and a’ that?
    The coward-slave, we pass him by,
      We dare be poor for a’ that!
    For a’ that, and a’ that,
      Our toils obscure, and a’ that,
    The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
      The man’s the gowd for a’ that!

    Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
      Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that;
    Though hundreds worship at his word,
      He’s but a cuif for a’ that:
    For a’ that, and a’ that;
      His ribband, star, and a’ that,
    The man of independent mind
      He looks and laughs at a’ that!

    Then let us pray that come it may--
      (As come it will for a’ that)
    That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
      May bear the gree, and a’ that;
    For a’ that, and a’ that,
      It’s comin’ yet for a’ that,
    That man to man, the world o’er,
      Shall brothers be for a’ that!

 [_While he sings, a man of bearing and authority has come in and taken
 a seat quietly at the back, unobserved. He now comes forward._]

_Burns_: Mr. Hamilton. A respectful good-even to you.

_Gavin Hamilton_: Well sung, Robert. A new one?

_Burns_: Yes, Mr. Hamilton.

_Hamilton_: I hear of trouble.

_Burns_: These gentlemen could tell you.

_Hamilton_: No doubt. They would find it an agreeable narrative. I know
them.

_Holy Willie_: I’ll trouble you, Mr. Hamilton, to keep your offensive
observations to yourself.

_Hamilton_: But why, when I part with them so suitably in your company?

                                     [_A_ SHERIFF’S OFFICER _comes in_.]

_The Officer_: Are you Robert Burns?

_Burns_: I am.

_The Officer_ (_serving a warrant_): In the King’s name.

_Hamilton_: What is this?

_Burns_: I’m a ruined man, Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Armour’s daughter--I can’t
pay--and he won’t let me wed her as I would.

_Armour_: He will not. And he will bid you good-night.

 [_He goes_, HOLY WILLIE _and the_ FACTOR _with him_.]

_Hamilton_ (_taking the warrant, and speaking to the_ OFFICER): Perhaps
you could keep this till to-morrow afternoon?

_The Officer_: If Mr. Hamilton asks me to.

_Hamilton_: You may bring it to my house.

_The Officer_: Certainly, sir.

                                                            [_He goes._]

_Hamilton_: Robert, you’re a fool.

_Burns_: I believe you, Mr. Hamilton.

_Hamilton_: But I’m not going to see you destroyed by men of that
tonnage. We must consider.

_Burns_: I had a fancy, but there’s no time now.

_Hamilton_: What was it?

_Burns_: If I could print some of my rhymes, and you and some like you,
Mr. Hamilton, could get a little interest for me--

_Hamilton_: Good. Yes. Come to-morrow morning. We’ll talk of it. What
was that factor fellow doing here?

_Burns_: Tam Laurie there.

_Hamilton_: O, it’s you.

_Tam_: I’m sorry to say it is, Mr. Hamilton.

_Hamilton_: Rent?

_Tam_: A week come Tuesday.

_Hamilton_: Yes. I think I might change his mind. Good-night, Robert.

_Burns_: Good-night, Mr. Hamilton.

_The Landlord_: I suppose, Mr. Hamilton (_going to the slate_), let me
see, four shillings and a penny--

                                            [_But_ HAMILTON _has gone_.]

_The Landlord_: No, quite so--not four shillings and a penny.

_Burns_: Never mind, landlord, when I’m laureate crowned, you shall
supply the nectar.

_The Landlord_: Aye, and I’ll be more than four shillings and a penny
out on that I take it. (_Waking the sleeping man._) Now then, John
Anderson, bed-time.

_Burns_: Good-night, landlord. Good-night, Nell. (_He kisses her._)
Come along, Tam. John Anderson, my jo, John, get up.

_John_ (_lifting himself, as uncertain as his speech_): I was sleeping
with the seven kings, and the Beast of the Apocalypse. I’m getting too
old to be called before the sunrise.

_Burns_: Come with us my jo, John--we’ll take you home.

_John_: But I don’t wish to go home. There will only be a wifely
exhortation, and I’m troubled by the seven Beasts of the Apocalypse.

_Burns_: This way. Take an arm, Tam.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      When we were first acquent;
    Your locks were like the raven,
      Your bonnie brow was brent;
    But now your brow is beld, John,
      Your locks are like the snaw;
    But blessings on your frosty pow,
      John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      We clamb the hill thegither;
    And mony a canty day, John,
      We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
    Now we maun totter down, John,
      And hand in hand we’ll go;
    And sleep thegither at the foot,
      John Anderson, my jo.

                                     [_They go down the road together._]

_The Landlord_: Good-night, lass. Lock the door. Leave chores till the
morning.

_Nell_: Good-night, Mr. Lomas.

                                                [_The_ LANDLORD _goes_.]

 [NELL _puts a little of the confusion to rights, goes to the door,
 opens it and looks down the road. She comes into the room, leaving the
 door open, and, moving about, sings._]

    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
    Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
    O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

 [_She stands looking at the door for a moment. Then she goes to it,
 closes and locks it, and puts out the lamp. She goes out by the
 candlelight of the stairway door, and leaves the scene in darkness,
 and the music continues as_


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS


SCENE III

 _At_ PROFESSOR FERGUSON’S _house in Edinburgh, nearly a year later--in
 February_.

 _It is a cheerful, comfortable room, marked by the taste and culture
 of Edinburgh literary society at its best, with the elegance of
 fashion. A few portraits of Scots men of letters and action hang on
 the wall--Allan Ramsay, Robert Fergusson, James VI., Robert Bruce; in
 addition there are books and a pair or two of claymores, and two or
 three prints, including one by Bunbury of a dead soldier and his dog.
 On the mantelpiece is a bust of David Hume. The chill Scots winter day
 is brightened by a large fire in the grate; outside is snow._

 _Folding doors are open to a room beyond, where a luncheon party has
 been taking place. The ladies have left the table, and are seated
 round the room before us. They are the hostess_, MRS. FERGUSON, _the_
 DUCHESS OF GORDON, MRS. MONTGOMERY, MISS TAYLOR, _and with them a boy
 of fifteen, the young_ WALTER SCOTT. _Men’s voices can be heard from
 time to time._

 _Another lady, young and beautiful_, MRS. STEWART OF STAIR, _is seated
 at the piano, singing to her own accompaniment_.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
    My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream--
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

    Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
    And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
    How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
    As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave!

    Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
    My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream--
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

 [_At the end of the song_ WALTER SCOTT _goes to a desk at the back of
 the room, and turns over the pages of a book_.]

_The Duchess_: Bravo! A very beautiful song.

_Miss Taylor_ (_very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not
for poetry_): And you say he gave it to you?

_Mrs. Stewart_: He sent it this morning.

_Miss Taylor_: Rather indelicate, don’t you think--that piece about
snowy feet?

_Mrs. Stewart_: I think it’s lovely.

_Miss Taylor_: Well, I must say I should feel rather embarrassed myself.

_Mrs. Ferguson_ (_benign and easy, the professor’s wife_): I like that
tune so much--Afton Water, isn’t it?

MRS. STEWART: Yes.

MRS. FERGUSON: Jamie used to whistle it, I remember.

_Mrs. Montgomery_ (_marble, more the duchess than_ GORDON _herself_): I
must say, Mrs. Ferguson, your young lion behaves himself quite prettily.

_The Duchess_: Why shouldn’t he, Mrs. Montgomery?

_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh well, Duchess, you would hardly expect it from a
ploughman, now would you?

_The Duchess_: ‘Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green
braes’--wouldn’t you expect it of that?

_Mrs. Stewart_: His conversation is entrancing.

_Miss Taylor_: A very dangerous young man, and with those eyes too.

_The Duchess_: Nonsense, Martha. You needn’t alarm yourself.

_Miss Taylor_: Well, I shouldn’t like to be alone with him.

_The Duchess_: I am sure he would be discreet. I think you’re a very
lucky woman, Mrs. Stewart. I wish Mr. Burns would write poems to me.
My husband says there’s never been such a natural genius in Scotland
before.

_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh, come now. For an uncultivated talent it is
pretty well, we may allow. But we must not turn his head.

_Miss Taylor_: I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Montgomery. Most unsafe.

_Mrs. Stewart_: I wonder he hasn’t married.

_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh, my dear, haven’t you heard of the scandal in his
own village? It would have been jail I’m told if it hadn’t been for
some Mr. Gavin Hamilton who took a fancy to him. But I believe he has
several families.

_Miss Taylor_: I really don’t think we ought to encourage him. And one
of his poems, I hear, is quite friendly to the Devil.

_The Duchess_:

    But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
    O wad ye tak’ a thought an’ men’!
    Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--
          Still hae a stake--
    I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
          E’en for your sake!

_Miss Taylor_: Most confusing.

_Walter Scott_ (_moving from his book to_ MRS. STEWART): Have you any
more of his poems, ma’am?

_Mrs. Stewart_: I have his book, Walter.

_Walter Scott_: I wish I could read it.

_Mrs. Stewart_: I’ll lend it to you.

_Walter Scott_: Will you really? Thank you. He has got lovely eyes,
hasn’t he? I should write poems if I had eyes like that. Couldn’t you
sing again?

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Yes, please do, Mrs. Stewart.

_Miss Taylor_: Something with a little religion in it.

_Mrs. Stewart_ (_after a glance at this, sings_):

    Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
    Adown her neck and bosom hing;
    How sweet unto that breast to cling
      And round that neck entwine her!

    Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
    O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
    Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
      A crimson still diviner.

_Miss Taylor_: Really!

_The Duchess_: I think my husband is right, Miss Taylor.

 [_From the room beyond comes the sound of voices, or particularly of
 one voice, raised in argument._ MRS. MONTGOMERY _majestically moves up
 to a view of the proceedings_.]

_Mrs. Montgomery_: Dear me. Mr. Burns seems to be making a speech. I
fear I was mistaken.

_The Duchess_: It’s that foolish man Robertson. He was speaking ill of
Mr. Gray’s _Elegy_. He was very provoking. Mr. Burns does quite right
to defend it.

_Burns’s voice_ (_from the far room_): Sir, I now perceive a man may
be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a
damned blockhead.

 [_The_ REVEREND MR. ROBERTSON, _a pedantic and acidulated clergyman,
 comes hurriedly through the door accompanied by his host_, PROFESSOR
 FERGUSON, _followed by_ BURNS.]

_Mr. Robertson_: Did you hear that?

_Professor Ferguson_: I beg you, Mr. Robertson--

_Robertson_: It is highly preposterous--

_Burns_: Will you allow me, sir, to apologise? I withdraw my
observation, and you may call the _Elegy_ what you will.

_Ferguson_: May I add my word--

_Robertson_: Very well, very well. I will overlook your indiscretion,
Mr. Burns. And believe me Gray is a very inferior poet.

 [_They are now followed into the room by_ DR. BLACKLOCK, _the aged
 blind poet, and_ LORD MUIR, _a middle-aged sporting laird_. BLACKLOCK
 _sits beside the_ DUCHESS OF GORDON, _conducted by_ FERGUSON;
 ROBERTSON _by_ MISS TAYLOR; MUIR _on a chair near them_; FERGUSON
 _goes to_ WALTER SCOTT, _who has returned to his book at the window;
 and_ BURNS _joins_ MRS. STEWART, _who is still seated at the piano.
 There is an undercurrent of conversation from the various groups._]

_Miss Taylor_ (_to_ ROBERTSON): That was extremely generous of you,
dear Mr. Robertson.

_Robertson_: Charity becomes my cloth, madam.

_Muir_ (_immensely pleased with the incident_): Yes, but a damned
blockhead. That’s straight riding, you must allow that, sir.

_Robertson_: I regret, your lordship, I am no Nimrod.

_Muir_: No, but damme, sir, we can all admire a straight line. I like
the lad.

_Miss Taylor_: It’s all very well, Lord Muir, but it’s most unbecoming
to call a reverend gentleman a--h’m--blockhead.

_Muir_: A damned blockhead, ma’am, that’s the word.

_Robertson_ (_turning his back to him, addressing_ MISS TAYLOR): As
I was remarking to you at luncheon, the history of pew-rents is very
misleading--

                             [_They drift into their own conversation._]

_Muir_ (_to_ MRS. MONTGOMERY, _under his breath_): That’s the kind of
poetry I can understand.

_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. STEWART): You did me great honour in your singing.

_Mrs. Stewart_: The songs are their own recommendation, Mr. Burns.

_Burns_: Sponsored by such beauty, madam, they could not fail.

_Mrs. Stewart_ (_touching the piano very lightly to the air of ‘Afton
Water’_): Do you find Edinburgh agreeable?

_Burns_: Some moments of it.

_Mrs. Stewart_: I hear of your fame everywhere.

_Burns_: Fortunately it does not deceive me.

_Mrs. Stewart_: But you have the sincere interest of many.

_Burns_: There are not many whose interest is valuable. With most, I
please for a season--a new fashion in the window.

_Mrs. Stewart_: A poet must not be bitter, Mr. Burns.

_Burns_: I am not bitter, madam. I know my friends from the rest, that
is all.

_Mrs. Stewart_: Your friends should be happy.

_Burns_: You are very gracious. You forget the--condescensions.

_Mrs. Stewart_: But that would be impossible.

_Burns_: Believe me, it is common. My plough lends a virtue to flattery.

_Mrs. Stewart_: There is honest esteem as well--delight.

_Burns_: I am as sensitive to it, madam, as the top leaves to the last
ripple of evening wind. You are bountiful.

_The Duchess_ (_speaking across_): Mrs. Ferguson, do you think we might
ask Mr. Burns to sing one of his songs himself?

_Mrs. Ferguson_: If he would be so kind.

_Burns_: Madam, if her Grace so compliments me. Will Mrs. Stewart play
an air for me?

_Muir_: Couldn’t it be something with a chorus--eh? Nothing like
opening the lungs, sir (_to Robertson_).

_Robertson_: I regret, your lordship, I am no Orpheus.

_Muir_: No, but damme, sir, sing cracked, what odds?

_Burns_: Do you know ‘The Campbells are Coming,’ madam?

_Mrs. Stewart_: This?

                                                  [_She plays the air._]

_Burns_: Aye--that. I’ve made some new verses for it--thus--

                                                           [_He sings._]

    Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay,
      Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay,
    I looked down to bonnie Lochleven
      And saw three bonnie perches play.

        The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
          The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
        The Campbells are comin’ to bonnie Lochleven,
          The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

    Great Argyle he goes before;
      He makes the cannons and guns to roar,
    Wi’ sound o’ trumpet, fife and drum;
      The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

        The Campbells are comin’, etc.

    The Campbells they are a’ in arms,
      Their loyal faith and truth to show,
    Wi’ banners rattling in the wind,
      The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

        The Campbells are comin’, etc.

 [_The_ DUCHESS OF GORDON, _and_ MRS. STEWART, _with_ BLACKLOCK _and_
 FERGUSON, _join enthusiastically in the choruses_, MRS. FERGUSON _more
 mildly_, MRS. MONTGOMERY _perfunctorily, and_ MUIR _excitedly, moving
 about the room, vainly exhorting_ ROBERTSON _and_ MISS TAYLOR. WALTER
 SCOTT, _tense with wondering admiration, slowly approaches_ BURNS _as
 he sings, and stands beside him_.

 _At the close of the song there is a burst of applause, and cries of_,
 ‘Bravo! Bravo! Another please, Mr. Burns,’ _through which is heard_.]

_Miss Taylor_ (_to_ ROBERTSON): Very incendiary in sentiment, I must
say.

_Robertson_: A very just criticism.

                                 [_The calls for another song persist._]

_Burns_: The tune of ‘The Collier’s Bonnie Lassie’?

 [MRS. STEWART _plays the air, and he sings, very quietly, his audience
 now_ MRS. STEWART _alone_.]

    O saw ye bonnie Lesley,
      As she gaed o’er the Border?
    She’s gane, like Alexander,
      To spread her conquests farther.

    To see her is to love her,
      And love but her for ever;
    For Nature made her what she is,
      And never made anither!

    Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
      Thy subjects, we before thee:
    Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
      The hearts o’ men adore thee.

    The Deil he could na scaith thee,
      Or aught that wad belang thee;
    He’d look into thy bonnie face,
      And say, ‘I canna wrang thee!’

 [_Very gravely and courteously he bows to_ MRS. STEWART _at the end,
 and to a murmur of approval moves across to the fireplace_. MRS.
 STEWART _remains talking to_ WALTER. MUIR _follows_ BURNS _to the
 fireplace_.]

_Muir_: Very pretty, Mr. Burns--especially that one about the
Campbells. I believe you join our little party at dinner to-night?

_Burns_: I am much obliged to your lordship.

_Muir_: The Barley Sheaf at seven. I subscribed for two copies of your
book. Don’t understand most of it, but I daresay I’ve spent money
worse. And I like straight riding, sir. Seven o’clock. [BURNS _bows to
this_.]

_Muir_ (_to the_ DUCHESS): Good-day, your Grace. (_To_ MRS. FERGUSON.)
Very entertaining, Mrs. Ferguson.

 [_He takes his leave generally and goes, speaking to_ FERGUSON _on his
 way out_. ROBERTSON _is saying good-bye to_ MISS TAYLOR, _and crosses
 to_ MRS. FERGUSON.]

_Robertson_: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. A most instructive
gathering, I am sure.

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Robertson. It was very considerate
of you to spare us the time.

_Robertson_ (_bowing stiffly to_ BURNS): Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. And
may the Lord chasten your muse.

_Burns_: Yes, sir. I will speak to Him about it.

_Robertson_: I will remember it in my devotions.

 [_He follows_ MUIR, _taking leave of the company as he goes_.]

_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. FERGUSON): I fear I was a little heated before we
left table. I beg your indulgence. (_To the_ DUCHESS.) Ma’am.

_The Duchess_ (_privately to him_): You were quite right. He is
a--damned blockhead, I think you said.

_Ferguson_ (_to_ MISS TAYLOR): Very striking poems those, don’t you
think, Miss Taylor?

_Miss Taylor_: Poetry is a pagan art, Mr. Ferguson.

_Ferguson_: But such fervour is refreshing.

_Miss Taylor_: Very irregular.

 [BURNS _has moved up to_ FERGUSON, _and is studying the Bunbury print
 on the wall_.]

_Blacklock_: That young man has the pure flame of genius in him.

_Mrs. Montgomery_: A little disconcerting, doctor. We have to remember
society, you know.

_Blacklock_: Society may be trusted with its own preservation, Mrs.
Montgomery, but Scotland has never heard songs the like of that before.
We must cherish them.

_Burns_: There is a sublime pathos in that. (_Reading from the
print._) ‘The child of misery baptised in tears.’ Whose words are those?

_Ferguson_: I do not remember. Dr. Blacklock, perhaps--Doctor, ‘The
child of misery baptised in tears’--do you recall the author?

_Blacklock_: No, I am afraid not.

 [WALTER SCOTT _speaks with some timid excitement to_ MRS. STEWART.]

_Mrs. Stewart_: Walter Scott here tells me they are by Langhorne.

_Burns_: Indeed, Langhorne. You read the poets?

_Walter Scott_: Every day.

_Burns_: They will never fail you. I am much indebted to you, Mr. Scott.

 [_He leaves the boy entirely elated, and moves towards his place by
 the fire._]

_Blacklock_: Mr. Burns.

_Burns_ (_crossing to him_): Sir?

_Blacklock_: I am an old man, Mr. Burns, and I have been allowed, if I
may say so, many honours. I would give them all to have written those
songs.

_Burns_: They have often been my only security, sir.

_Mrs. Montgomery_: Dr. Blacklock is very considerate of your merit, Mr.
Burns.

_Burns_: There are obligations, ma’am, not easy to discharge with
modesty. I am very sensible of Dr. Blacklock’s kindness.

_Blacklock_: Mr. Burns is quite right, Mrs. Montgomery. I was not
offering him compliments.

 [_He lifts his hand paternally for_ BURNS _to take_. BURNS, _with
 great tenderness, returns the salute, and goes back to the fireplace_.
 MISS TAYLOR _rises and moves over to_ MRS. FERGUSON.]

_Miss Taylor_: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. We meet on Friday.

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Yes, Miss Taylor.

_Miss Taylor_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. I trust you will not neglect
the vineyard.

_Burns_: There are no vineyards at Mossgiel, madam.

_Miss Taylor_: I mean the Lord’s. The labourer must be worthy of his
hire.

_Burns_: The labourer--hired. Yes, I will remember.

 [MISS TAYLOR _takes leave of the_ DUCHESS _and the company, and goes,
 accompanied to the door by_ MRS. FERGUSON.

 WALTER SCOTT _comes to_ MRS. FERGUSON _and shakes her hand. He stands
 a moment before_ BURNS, _looking at him uncertainly_.]

_Burns_ (_holding out his hand, which_ WALTER _takes_): Good-bye.

_Walter Scott_: Good-bye, sir.

 [_Leaving_ BURNS _rather poignantly taken aback by the unexpected
 ceremony of address, he bows to the_ DUCHESS _and the others and
 goes_. MRS. STEWART _is now standing by_ DR. BLACKLOCK, _and as_ MRS.
 MONTGOMERY _rises, she takes her place_.]

_Mrs. Montgomery_ (_to her hostess_): Good-afternoon. Good-afternoon,
Duchess. If I can help Mr. Burns with any recommendation, he will let
me know. Word left at Wilson’s bookshop will reach me.

                                [_She goes, escorted by the_ FERGUSONS.]

_The Duchess_: Dr. Blair was praising your poems this morning, Mr.
Burns. But he suggested that you might with advantage enlarge your
scope. He spoke of Dr. Young and Mr. Akenside.

_Burns_: I fear my Pegasus is for light journeys only, your Grace.

 [MRS. FERGUSON _is now sitting opposite_ MRS. STEWART _with_
 BLACKLOCK. FERGUSON _joins the group at the fire_.]

_Blacklock_: If Mr. Burns would humour me before I go, might I ask for
another of his--masterpieces.

_The Duchess_: Yes--please.

_Burns_: Will Mrs. Stewart favour me--the duet you were speaking of?

 [MRS. STEWART _goes to the piano, and they sing_.]

    _She_

    As I gaed down the water-side,
    There I met my shepherd lad,
    He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,
      And ca’d me his dearie.
    Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca’ them where the heather grows,
    Ca’ them where the burnie rows,
      My bonnie dearie!

    _He_

    Will ye gang down the water-side,
    And see the waves sae sweetly glide?
    Beneath the hazels spreading wide
      The moon it shines fu’ clearly.
        Ca’ the yowes, etc.

    _She_

    If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
    I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad,
    And ye may row me in your plaid,
      And I sall be your dearie.
        Ca’ the yowes, etc.


_Blacklock_: The sweetest voice of Caledonia’s sons, Mrs. Ferguson.

_The Duchess_ (_rising_): Well, your poet has captivated me entirely,
Mrs. Ferguson. I return to Gordon Castle next week, Mr. Burns. I hope
you will visit us there.

_Burns_ (_kissing her offered hand_): If you will indulge me so far,
your Grace.

 [_The_ DUCHESS _says good-bye to_ MRS. STEWART _and_ DR. BLACKLOCK,
 _and goes out with_ MRS. FERGUSON, _passing_ FERGUSON _at the door_.
 FERGUSON _moves down to_ BLACKLOCK.]

_Blacklock_ (_rising_): Mr. Ferguson? I am greatly your debtor. It has
been one of the most memorable occasions in a long life. A very great
privilege, Mr. Burns.

 [_He holds out his hand in the direction of_ BURNS, _who takes it with
 real veneration_. _Then he goes_, FERGUSON _directing his steps_.]

_Burns_: You are staying in Edinburgh long?

_Mrs. Stewart_: I leave to-morrow.

_Burns_ (_looking at his watch_): I must go. Mrs. Ferguson will be
tired of me. You sang enchantingly.

_Mrs. Stewart_: You are joining the Barley Sheaf party to-night?

_Burns_: Yes.

_Mrs. Stewart_: You are happy there?

_Burns_: I am free. And nobody patronises me.

_Mrs. Stewart_: But they have been very civil to you here.

_Burns_: Some of them. And there have been consolations even beyond
that. The old man, and the boy, and you. But the others--you heard. Why
should I? Where does it lead me?

_Mrs. Stewart_: Success at the Barley Sheaf is more gratifying?

_Burns_: I know, madam, I know. But I shall never learn discipline.

_Mrs. Stewart_: Not even for the sake of your friends?

_Burns_: In a few weeks I shall have passed out of all this--back from
it, if you will. My friends, who will they be then? I do not expect
remembrance.

_Mrs. Stewart_: That is not kind.

_Burns_: It is generous of you to think it. O, I am not ungrateful,
believe me. I have been fortunate in opinions that I shall cherish.
But those--with their vineyards, and preachments over me, and
Akensides, and Wilson’s bookshop--did you hear that? My time may come,
but it is not now, in Edinburgh.

_Mrs. Stewart_: And so birthright may be wasted, at the Barley Sheaf?

_Burns_: Do not let me deceive you, madam. Like my songs--yes, I pray
you will do that. But they thrive in that company--I am at home there.
I am not proud of it, and it will settle my account early, likely
enough. But I know my condition. Virtue was born a caprice in me,
madam, and fortune has not husbanded her for me. I sing sometimes, and
for the rest I have no talent, perhaps, but a little to know myself.

_Mrs. Stewart_: I understand. And you will be yourself.

_Burns_: Even through disaster, I must. It is the only honour I have.

[_The_ FERGUSONS _come back_.]

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Forgive us, please.

_Burns_: Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson, for your kindness--it was very
obliging of you to bring me here. Good-afternoon.

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns.

_Ferguson_: Many flattering things have been said, Mr. Burns.

_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. STEWART): Good-afternoon, madam.

_Mrs. Stewart_: Good luck, Mr. Burns.

_Ferguson_ (_going out with him_): Very flattering, I assure you. Most
gratifying you must find it--

                                                        [_They go out._]

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Shall you come with me, my dear, to Dr. Mackenzie’s?

_Mrs. Stewart_: I think I would rather stay at home this afternoon,
Mrs. Ferguson.

 [FERGUSON _returns and goes to his desk for a book_.]

_Mrs. Ferguson_: Certainly, my dear. I’ll tell Maggie.

_Ferguson_: Very pleasant. Dr. Robertson was most instructive at lunch
upon the second epistle, don’t you think? Yes.

                                                     [_He bustles out._]

_Mrs. Ferguson_: She shall bring tea to you here.

                                                           [_She goes._]

 [MRS. STEWART _plays a few notes of ‘Afton Water’ on the piano. Then
 she changes the air, and sings very softly._]

  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
  Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

 [_She pauses, and laughs lightly and humorously at herself, and_]


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS


SCENE IV

 _A room at the Barley Sheaf, by candlelight, in the late evening of
 the same day._

 _Seated round a table are_ LORD MUIR _and_ BALIOL WHITE, _a young
 spark of fashion_; SAM OGILVIE, _a flash but unprosperous ‘sport’_;
 NEIL SIMPSON, _a drab and dissolute little schoolmaster_; ‘SHY’
 DUNCAN, _a speculative gentleman of finance, at present half asleep,
 and_ BURNS.

 _Their cups are frequently replenished from a large punch-bowl in the
 middle of the table._

_Burns_ (_to full chorus, is singing_),

    O, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
      And Rob and Allan cam’ to see;
    Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
      Ye wad na found in Christendie.

    _Chorus_

      We are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
        But just a drappie in our e’e;
      The cock may craw, the day may daw,
        And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

    Here are we met, three merry boys,
      Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
    And mony a night we’ve merry been,
      And mony mae we hope to be!

    _Chorus_

        We are na fou, etc.

    It is the moon, I ken her horn,
      That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
    She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
      But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!

    _Chorus_

        We are no fou, etc.

_Muir_ (_beating the table_): There’s no eloquence like it. Was not
Demosthenes an orator? Then was Demosthenes drunk.

_Neil Simpson_: Very logically put, my lord. In vino salutas.

_Sam Ogilvie_: There’s no badger in the world like wine. It defies the
dogs of care. The cravenous dogs of care.

_Simpson_: Cravenous is not good lexicon. It is no word.

_Ogilvie_: I’ll have you know, Mr. Simpson, it is my word. It means
exactly what I mean.

_Simpson_: It is an abuse--

_Baliol White_: Let your lexicon go to sleep, dominie. We’ll have no
precisians here. I said precisians. Does anyone dispute it?

_Muir_: Gentlemen, I give you a toast. We have with us this evening a
genius of the most pre-eminent intoxication--inspiration. In my opinion
he makes Homer look a ninny. I have not perused the works of that
celebrated Greek, but I am convinced that he was a ninny. Mr. Burns is
not a ninny, and I defy anyone to say that he is. Mr. Burns, if anyone
says you are a ninny, he shall answer to me for it.

_Ogilvie_: Who suggested that Mr. Burns was a ninny?

_Muir_: I’m not suggesting that anyone suggested it. I merely assert
that he is not. Mr. Burns, let me assure you of the confidence of the
assembled company. Gentlemen, I give you the health of Mr. Robert
Burns, and may his glass never be empty.

                               [_They drink to the toast boisterously._]

_White_: Speech, speech!

                                        [_He is supported by the rest._]

_Burns_ (_rising_): It is a great honour to be in your convivial
company. They are fools outside, but we are Solomons, with the
perpetual fount of wisdom before us. We are the true ministers of
state, for our policy is everlasting. Love is our law, and drink is our
prophet, and shall we not obey these? I give you back a toast--Woman
and the brimming bowl--gentlemen!

                                              [_The toast is honoured._]

_Burns_: Mr. Duncan, wake up, sir. Be not dejected in sleep, Mr. Duncan.

_White_ (_shaking him_): Wake up, Shy. Shall we forget our behaviour
before a man of genius, a man of temperament?

_Duncan_ (_rousing himself_): Ten per cent.? What’s ten per cent. to
me? I’ll not deal under twelve. Not a guinea under fifteen.

_Muir_: Behave yourself, Shy. To-morrow we will be again your devoted
clients. To-night we do not discuss these things.

_Duncan_: I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I fell asleep, and was dreaming
of a small transaction--most negligent of me to mention it in this
company. By no means.

_White_: A very unpleasant reference, Shy. When is quarter-day?

_Duncan_: Don’t allow that to trouble you, Mr. White. I am always
accommodating.

_Simpson_: Sat ad diem diei malum est.

_Duncan_: Most probably you are. But scholarship has a hungry belly,
Mr. Simpson. I forswore it when I was a swaddler. I stand for the
receipt of custom.

_Muir_: O nimble Shy, we are not interested in your biography.

_Duncan_: Will you write my biography, Mr. Burns?

_Ogilvie_: It is as unwanted as a paunch on a jockey.

_Duncan_: My lord, I ask you, does this pea-and-thimble man mean to
insult me? (_Rising._) I asked Mr. Burns to write my biography.

_Muir_: Sit down, Shy, you’re drunk.

_Duncan_: I know I’m drunk--I’m pleased to confess to anybody I’m
drunk--

_Ogilvie_: Drunk and daft, Shylock, sit down.

_Duncan_: You stable-fly, you tap-sawdust, you ninepenny wager--he owes
me four pounds ten--

_White_ (_pulling him down_): Sit down, Shy, don’t be a fool. A song,
Mr. Burns.

_The Others_: A song, a song.

_Burns_: Shall gentlemen of spirit quarrel about four pound ten? Call
it quits, Mr. Duncan.

_Muir_: Come, Shy, quits, in honour of Mr. Burns. Sam meant no offence.

_Duncan_: I honour Mr. Burns highly. But I’ll see him damned before I
will stand out of four pound ten.

_Simpson_: A very ignoble sentiment.

_White_: A song, a song.

_Burns_: I’m sorry, Mr. Ogilvie, that our friend will not oblige us.
But was ever candour more becoming? A song for you, gentlemen.

    Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo,
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
    On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
    Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
    Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

    Time and chance are but a tide;
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
    Slighted love is sair to bide;
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
    ‘Shall I, like a fool,’ quoth he,
    ‘For a haughty hizzie die?
    She may gae to--France for me!’
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

    How it comes let doctors tell;
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
    Meg grew sick--as he grew hale,
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
    Something in her bosom wrings,
    For relief a sigh she brings;
    And O, her een, they spak’ sic things!
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

    Duncan was a lad o’ grace
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
    Maggie’s was a piteous case
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
    Duncan couldna be her death,
    Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath;
    Now they’re crouse and canty baith--
      Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

_Simpson_: A very sweet measure, Mr. Burns, and exemplary morality. The
ancients would most unconsciously have approved. And he who has not the
expedition of the ancients is a blockhead.

_Muir_: A damned blockhead, dominie. That’s what Mr. Burns called the
minister at lunch to-day. I never heard a compliment more prettily put.
A damned blockhead.

_Duncan_ (_rousing from his stupor_): Who says I’m a damned blockhead?
I resent the insults of this company--I am tired of them. If Mr. Burns
says I am a damned blockhead, he’s a bankrupt bastard.

_Simpson and White_: Order, order.

_Muir_ (_a little sobered_): Shy Duncan, be ashamed of yourself,
man. No one is welcome in this company who cannot get drunk like a
gentleman.

_Ogilvie_ (_rising_): I warned you, my lord, he was no fit member for
our society.

_Duncan_ (_standing to him_): You’re fit enough, I suppose, Mr.
Five-Ace Ogilvie.

_Muir_ (_with authority now_): Drop it, Duncan, I tell you. Sam is our
gillie of all games. You’re our financier. We know our obligations.
Very well. But you must apologise to Mr. Burns.

_Duncan_: I will not apologise if he calls me a damned blockhead.

_Burns_: Mr. Duncan, believe me I had not considered you in that light.

_Ogilvie_: You are a damned blockhead anyway, Shy.

_Duncan_: Then I’ve done with argument.

 [_With this he flings the contents of his cup in_ OGILVIE’S _face_.
 OGILVIE _tries to close with him, but is restrained by_ WHITE _and_
 SIMPSON, _while_ MUIR _and_ BURNS _hold_ DUNCAN.]

_Duncan_ (_to_ BURNS): Leave me alone, you bawdy jingler. Go back to
your wenching, and let men settle their own affairs. Take your hands
off me, I say.

_White_ (_to_ OGILVIE): Sit down, Sam.

_Simpson_: Brawling is licentious.

                                                   [_They quieten him._]

_Duncan_: Let me go, you.

 [_But_ BURNS _needs a little help from_ MUIR _to keep him in control_.]

_Burns_: Why do you discompose yourself, Mr. Duncan? No one means you
any harm.

_Duncan_: You have no right to address me at all. I am above your
quality.

_Muir_ (_tipsy like the rest, but clear as to the situation_): Duncan,
are you going to apologise? Either that, or you can go home, and don’t
come back.

_Duncan_ (_relapsing suddenly from temper to maudlin stupor, sinking
into his chair_): I will apologise if Mr. Burns will write my biography.

_Simpson_: He shall write it, and I will exhibit it by citation.

_Duncan_: Very well then, I apologise.

_Muir_: Very unedifying, Mr. Burns. I beg you will overlook it. Fill
up, gentlemen.

 [_He fills the cups. As he is doing so a serving maid comes in._]

_The Girl_: This has just been left for Mr. Burns. (_Giving him a
note._) A lady in a coach.

_White_: A love letter, I’ll warrant. (_To the_ GIRL.) Did you read it,
darling?

                           [_He puts his arm round her and kisses her._]

_The Girl_: I have my own, thank you.

_White_: O, you have, have you?

 [_She moves to go._ BURNS _is fumbling with his letter, beyond any
 easy reading of it_.]

_Muir_ (_filling the last cup_): A moment, Meg. The bowl is empty.
We will replenish it. Bear it in front of us. Come, Baliol, we will
administer the ingredients together. Excuse us, gentlemen.

 [MEG _carries the bowl out_, MUIR _and_ WHITE _following her_.

 OGILVIE _has subsided on to the floor, and is lying with his head on_
 DUNCAN’S _knee, both asleep_.]

_Burns_ (_the opened letter in his hand_): This handwriting is
confoundedly fidgetty.

_Simpson_ (_who has carried his liquor better than the rest_): Is it of
a private character, Mr. Burns?

_Burns_: Its character escapes me.

                                          [_Handing the letter to him._]

_Simpson_ (_reading_): ‘Remember your friends. They remember you. Be
just to yourself. Afton Water.’ (_Returning the letter._) An obscure
reference.

_Burns_: Just to myself. Are we just to ourselves, Mr. Simpson?

_Simpson_: It is many years since I asked myself that question, Mr.
Burns. I was ambitious once.

_Burns_: And you betrayed yourself?

_Simpson_: I accepted my limitations.

_Burns_: I could have been a different man, Mr. Simpson, and she died.
I, too, am accepting my limitations. We’re not very proud of it, eh,
Mr. Simpson?

_Simpson_: I do not vex my mind on the matter any longer.

_Burns_: That’s it. It comes. It is coming to me--I know it. Mary,
lass, Mary.

 [_And now, brooding far away from his environment, he sings._]

    Thou ling’ring star, with less’ning ray,
      That lov’st to greet the early morn,
    Again thou usher’st in the day
      My Mary from my soul was torn.
    O Mary! dear departed shade!
      Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    See’st thou thy lover lowly laid?
      Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

    That sacred hour can I forget?
      Can I forget the hallowed grove,
    Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
      To live one day of parting love?
    My Mary! dear departed shade!
      Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    See’st thou thy lover lowly laid?
      Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

_Simpson_: She’ll not hear.

 [BURNS _makes no reply, but sits alone in his moment of remorse_.

 MUIR _and_ WHITE _return with the bowl, now full. They place it on the
 table._]

_Muir_: Gentlemen, gentlemen. Asleep and moody. Come, this is
festivity. (_Rousing the sleepers._) Wake up, drink up, sing up!

_Duncan_ (_waking_): I apologise--I said so. Sam Ogilvie, we will wipe
out all debts. Let us drink till morning.

_Ogilvie_: Shy, you’re a thoroughbred.

_Muir_: Come, Mr. Burns, do not be put out of countenance because a few
words have passed. Let gone be gone. We’re all friends now. Another
song, Mr. Burns, and here’s to you.

                        [_They all drink again, and call for the song._]

_Burns_ (_rousing himself_): You mistake me, gentlemen. I am your
servant. And, my lord, as you say, we will let gone be gone. We cannot
confound our limitations, as Mr. Simpson will tell you. So let us
drink, and sing, and drink.

 [_He drinks a full cup at a draught, and sings, the chorus now renewed
 to its highest pitch._]

    Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose?
          Igo and ago,
    If he’s amang his friends or foes?
          Iram, coram, dago.

    Is he south or is he north?
          Igo and ago,
    Or drownèd in the river Forth?
          Iram, coram, dago.

    Is he slain by Highlan’ bodies?
          Igo and ago,
    And eaten like a wether-haggis?
          Iram, coram, dago.

    Is he to Abram’s bosom gane?
          Igo and ago,
    Or haudin’ Sarah by the wame?
          Iram, coram, dago.

    Where’er he be, the Lord be near him!
          Igo and ago,
    As for the deil, he daurna steer him!
          Iram, coram, dago.

    So may ye get in glad possession,
          Igo and ago,
    The coins o’ Satan’s coronation!
          Iram, coram, dago.


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS


SCENE V

 BURNS’S _Farm at Ellisland, six miles from Dumfries. An August evening
 in 1791, more than four years later._

 _It is the general kitchen-living-room at the farm. It is fine and
 warm, and the door to the straw-littered yard is open. A girl is
 clearing away the evening meal, which has been shared by the family
 and the farm-servants. A young labourer is sitting by the window
 mending a bridle. By the fireplace_, JEAN ARMOUR, _now_ MRS. BURNS,
 _is sewing and singing_.

    O wert thou in the cauld blast
      On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
    My plaidie to the angry airt
      I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee:
    Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
      Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
    Thy bield should be my bosom,
      To share it a’, to share it a’.

    Or were I in the wildest waste,
      Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
    The desert were a paradise,
      If thou wert there, if thou wert there:
    Or were I monarch of the globe,
      Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
    The brightest jewel in my crown
      Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

_The Girl_: That’s a favourite of the master’s.

_Jean_: It was our wedding song.

_The Girl_: It must be fine to be wed.

_Jean_: It’s fine, but it’s anxious.

_The Young Man_: How long have you been married, Mrs. Burns?

_Jean_: Married six years, wed three.

_The Young Man_: And you’re not tired of it?

_Jean_: I’ve had no time to get tired.

_The Young Man_: It’s different for women, I suppose. I should be
scared of wedding--having to cleave to one, as they say.

_Jean_: It doesn’t follow.

_The Girl_: It would follow if I was the one--I’d have you understand
that, Willie Campbell.

_Willie_: You’re very exacting.

_The Girl_: I’m not. You could promise it at least. You’re too
calculating. It’s no good making love to a girl unless you can lie to
her.

 [_She goes into a wash-house beyond, with plates and dishes._]

_Willie_: That’s all right, but a man should be cautious--then they
can’t turn on him afterwards.

_Jean_: Maybe. I’ve never come into contact with caution, Willie.

_Willie_: Mr. M’Pherson has sent over again about the barley. That’s
the third time.

_Jean_: Have you told Mr. Burns?

_Willie_: Yes, but he takes no notice.

_Jean_: I’ll speak to him.

_Willie_: It’s no business of mine, but the farm’s wasting, Mrs. Burns.

_Jean_: You’re right, Willie, it’s no business of yours.

_Willie_: I’ll have to be going elsewhere.

_Jean_: You’re a very prudent young man.

_Willie_: What’s the use of putting me off like that? There’s no
offence in what I say. I mean it friendly. The master’s mind is not in
it. This could be a grand farm, Mrs. Burns, but it needs a judicious
industry. He’s a great man, and a poet, and all that they say, but
here’s a hundred acres being spoilt by his neglect.

                                                     [BURNS _comes in_.]

_Burns_: You’re quite right, Willie, neglect, that’s what it is.

_Jean_: You shouldn’t speak so, Willie.

_Burns_: But he should, Jean, my girl. Truth’s truth, eh, Willie?

_Willie_: It’s no good taking it so easy, Mr. Burns, thinking you’ll
make me quiet by agreeing with me like that. I’ve started, and
I’ll finish. It’s been growing in me. We work here for a scant of
wages--that’s all fair enough--you can’t afford more. But we want to
have a pride in the place, same as you ought to, and don’t. And you
can laugh at my truth as you call it, but you feel it all the same.
I’ve watched you, and I’ve seen the conscience in your face. You stand
down in the fields there like a man moonstruck, when you ought to be
keeping your eyes on us. Couldn’t you write your poems on Sabbath
afternoons? And you take too much of the liquor. There’s the stuff in
Town meadows rotting, we’ve missed the last two Dumfries markets, and
there’s a good deal at M’Pherson’s going begging. Now I’ve said my say,
and you can turn me off. But I couldn’t watch it with my mouth shut any
longer.

                                            [_He goes out to the yard._]

_Jean_: Willie Campbell is forgetting himself.

_Burns_: No, Jean, he’s right. You know it, and I know it. It isn’t the
farm only that’s spoiling.

_Jean_: I know, Robbie. Can’t you--I mean, it’s hard for you.

_Burns_: It’s hard for you, lass. I’ve got a head often enough damned
well full of resolutions, but what’s the good of them--they scatter.
The land’s mean and it’s beaten me. Or I’ve beaten myself. I can’t help
the tunes running in my head, or getting a dry gullet. (_He goes to
the dresser and mixes a bowl of whisky punch._) But I’ve done with the
cursed bit of acres. I’ve accepted the excise job at Dumfries.

_Jean_: Accepted it?

_Burns_: Aye--we’ll be more certain there. Seventy pounds a year.
(_Drinking._) We’re famous, Jean, and now we have preferment. The muse
is honoured. We should give thanks.

_Jean_: And there were such fine promises too, from Edinburgh and the
like.

_Burns_: Solicitation--well, there, I’ve had no stomach for it. I’ll
not complain.

_Jean_: Couldn’t you see M’Pherson?

_Burns_: Aye--I’ve been meaning to this fortnight. But you know how
it is. I’m all moods these days. That’s no reason--I know where the
reproach lies well enough. But if it weren’t for you, Jean girl, and
the others, I’d take my songs to the devil point to point. I’d have
done with disillusions then. I could spread my wings in hell, maybe.

_Jean_: Don’t talk so, Robbie. Is my faith in you nothing?

_Burns_: It’s a miracle of your own heart. But there--Dumfries may mend
us. (_Drinking._) To the providence of Dumfries.

_Jean_: And you’ll see M’Pherson?

_Burns_: Aye. And I’m weak and unstable, I know, but I know where my
good fortune is, for all I’m careless of it at times. You’ve been in my
mind all day. Listen.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    O’ a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
      I dearly like the west,
    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
      The lassie I lo’e best:
    There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
      And mony a hill between;
    But day and night my fancy’s flight
      Is ever wi’ my Jean.

    I see her in the dewy flowers,
      I see her sweet and fair:
    I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
      I hear her charm the air:
    There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
      By fountain, shaw, or green,
    There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
      But minds me o’ my Jean.

_Jean_: Thank you, Robin. I’ve heard from my father. He’s coming on
Friday.

_Burns_: As you like.

_Jean_: You know how proud he is of you now.

_Burns_: Aye. I know.

 [_The_ GIRL _comes back with clean plates, which she puts on the
 dresser_.]

_The Girl_: Mrs. Fergus is coming across the field, Mrs. Burns.

                                                 [_She goes out again._]

_Burns_: That girl is too pretty, Jean.

_Jean_: We’ll trust her.

_Burns_: But I can’t trust myself. I never could, and I grow no wiser.
I’ll go to the barn--I can’t bide Ellen Fergus.

_Jean_: And won’t you come in then and just sit here and read your
book? You haven’t done that lately.

_Burns_: Maybe. Why, yes, girl, if it will please you.

 [_He finishes his drink and goes out._ JEAN _returns to her sewing,
 and sings_.]

    Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
      How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
      And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!
    Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
      That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:
    Thou mindst me o’ departed joys,
      Departed, never to return!

    Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,
      To see the rose and woodbine twine;
    And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
      And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
    Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
      Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
    And my fause luver staw my rose,
      But, ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

 [_As she finishes_, MRS. FERGUS _appears at the door, and stands
 looking in the direction that_ BURNS _has taken_.]

_Mrs. Fergus_ (_singing, to_ BURNS):

    My bottle is a holy pool,
    That heals the wounds o’ care an’ dool;
    And pleasure is a wanton trout,
    An ye drink it dry, ye’ll find him out.

Are you alone, Mrs. Burns?

                                               [_Coming into the room._]

_Jean_: Yes, Mrs. Fergus. Come in and sit down.

_Mrs. Fergus_ (_sitting_): A fine, thrifty evening.

_Jean_: The season’s very prosperous.

_Mrs. Fergus_: I hope you find it so.

_Jean_: We’ve much to be thankful for.

_Mrs. Fergus_: You’re a great one for fortitude, Mrs. Burns, I’ll say
that.

_Jean_: I don’t know how that may be.

_Mrs. Fergus_: My husband says your farm isn’t showing as well as it
might. Mr. Burns is busy elsewhere no doubt.

_Jean_: He’s been doing a bit of excise work. He’s going to take it up
altogether. In Dumfries.

_Mrs. Fergus_: In Dumfries? But that makes company for him, I daresay.

_Jean_: Yes.

_Mrs. Fergus_: A man must need a strong constitution, what with a call
here, and a call there. But Mr. Burns looks a stout sort.

_Jean_: He’s very popular--with his fame too.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Quite a celebrity, I suppose, when he’s away from home.

_Jean_: Some of our neighbours appreciate him too.

_Mrs. Fergus_: And not the handsome ones least, Mrs. Burns, I’ll be
bound.

_Jean_: So he tells me.

_Mrs. Fergus_: You’re not very partial to observation yourself, perhaps.

_Jean_: When your man’s a man of spirit, Mrs. Fergus, you can see and
you can not see.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Well, every woman must judge for herself.

_Jean_: Some judge for others as well.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Do you find Ramsay’s mill satisfactory? We thought of
trying it.

_Jean_: I’ve not heard Robert mention it.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Indeed? I thought he did a good deal of business there.
I see him going down often.

_Jean_: He doesn’t always trouble me with these things.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Ramsay’s daughter Peg is growing into the flower of the
countryside they say, and none too particular either.

_Jean_: Listen, Mrs. Fergus. You called in here neighbourly, and you’re
welcome. But I know more than you can teach me about Robert, and I’ll
ask you to take your gossip where it’s wanted. He’s no pattern maybe,
but there’s few with the heart or the brain to copy him. There’s that
in him that is beyond the understanding of the likes of us. I’ve had my
share of him, and I know how to keep my share of him. And I’d rather
have that share than ten other whole men. And when I want to take
counsel about him I’ll take counsel with him himself.

_Mrs. Fergus_: If you take my words like that--

_Jean_: Just like that.

_Mrs. Fergus_ (_rising_): Then I’d better be going.

_Jean_: No, you needn’t go. You’re welcome, as I said. There’s plenty
else for conversation. Sit down. Do you know Dumfries?

_Mrs. Fergus_: I’m sure I meant no interfering. (_Sitting._) A little.
It’s a very fashionable town.

_Jean_: I fear it will be costly.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Aye, you can spend money there.

 [ANDREW M’PHERSON, _a neighbouring farmer, comes to the door_.]

_M’Pherson_: Is Robert at home, Mrs. Burns?

_Jean_: He’s near, somewhere. Come in, Mr. M’Pherson.

_M’Pherson_ (_coming in_): Thank you. Good-evening, Mrs. Fergus.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Good-evening, Mr. M’Pherson. I’m told Mrs. M’Pherson is
not looking well.

_M’Pherson_: She’s bonny.

_Mrs. Fergus_: Oh? Then I’ve been misinformed.

_M’Pherson_: No doubt you have. And not the first time, Mrs. Fergus.

 [BURNS _is heard approaching, singing as he comes_.]

    Comin’ through the rye, poor body,
      Comin’ through the rye,
    She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
      Comin’ through the rye.
    Gin a body meet a body--
      Comin’ through the rye,
    Gin a body kiss a body--
      Need a body cry?

_Mrs. Fergus_: Yes, I think I’ll be going. Good-evening.

                            [_She goes, and meets_ BURNS _at the door_.]

_Burns_: She’s draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Mrs. Fergus. Missions of
comfort, eh?

_Mrs. Fergus_: I hope you’ll find Dumfries very improving, Mr. Burns.
Good-evening.

                                                           [_She goes._]

_Burns_ (_after her_): The removal will have its compensations,
Mrs. Fergus. (_Coming in._) Andrew, my son. Just a drop? (_Filling
glasses._) I was coming to see you.

_M’Pherson_: You’ve been long enough.

_Burns_: Time’s a fleet colt, Andrew. (_Handing a glass._) Here’s your
good health.

                                                         [_They drink._]

_M’Pherson_: Well, is it a deal?

_Burns_: I was going to tell you, yes.

_M’Pherson_: That’s good. Here’s the coin.

                              [_He counts out some money on the table._]

_Burns_ (_taking up the money_): That’s the last deal at Ellisland.
(_Handing the money to_ JEAN.) Here you are, lass--no, I’ll keep one.

                                           [WILLIE CAMPBELL _comes in._]

_Willie_: Am I to stay, or am I to go?

_Burns_: We’re going ourselves, Willie. To Dumfries.

_Willie_: You’re letting it beat you.

_Jean_: It’s a very responsible excise appointment, Willie.

_Willie_: We could have made this a grand farm, I tell you, and you’ll
go smuggler-baiting.

                                   [_He returns to his bridle-mending._]

_Burns_: And so you despise me?

_Willie_: I do not. I’m disappointed in you.

_M’Pherson_: The land’s good. It ought to do well.

_Burns_: Willie’s right. I haven’t the character. I love the earth,
Andrew, but I’m no master of it. It’s a live thing, and knows it.
It’ll only grow songs for me. So I’m for a gauger. It’s best. You and
Willie are the ones. (_Filling the glasses._) I was never made for firm
footing, and if I think I’ll do better in Dumfries, I think I won’t.
Make what you can of that, my friends.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    My father was a farmer
      Upon the Carrick border, O,
    And carefully he bred me
      In decency and order, O;
    He bade me act a manly part,
      Though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
    For without an honest manly heart
      No man was worth regarding, O.

    In many a way, and vain essay,
      I courted Fortune’s favour, O;
    Some cause unseen still stept between,
      To frustrate each endeavour, O:
    Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d;
      Sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
    And when my hope was at the top,
      I still was worst mistaken, O.

It’s a poor, low-hearted doctrine you say, you masters. Well, there it
is. Jeannie, girl, they’ve told you the truth about me.

_Jean_: I’ve known the truth about you these six years, Robin, in spite
of everybody’s telling.

 [_A stranger, a traveller, appears at the door._]

_Stranger_: Mr. Burns? Will you forgive me? I have a letter from Mr.
Gavin Hamilton.

                                             [_Handing him the letter._]

_Burns_ (_reading_): Mr. Hamilton’s friends are welcome. Jean, Mr.
Fenton.

_Jean_: Good-evening--have you eaten?

_Fenton_: Thank you, I’m at the Inn.

_Burns_: Well, a glass of grog at least.

                                              [_He mixes another bowl._]

_Fenton_: You’re very kind. Mr. Hamilton’s letter has, perhaps,
explained.

_Burns_: He recommends your acquaintance, sir, that’s all.

_Fenton_: I am visiting in Ayr. I could not miss the opportunity of
presenting my compliments in person to Mr. Burns.

_Burns_: Sir, you flatter me.

_Fenton_: It is no flattery, sir. Enlightened judgment in London is
very well aware that we have no genius in England to excel one in
Scotland. It must be a great satisfaction to you, madam, to know your
husband is so generally acknowledged.

_Jean_: We are much encouraged by it.

_Fenton_: But genius, I know, does not need these assurances.

_Burns_ (_handing punch_): They are my wages, sir. I am grateful for
them.

_Fenton_: Mr. Hamilton tells me of your appointment to the excise at
Dumfries. My congratulations.

                                                         [_They drink._]

_Burns_: Yes. Seventy pounds a year.

 [_The_ GIRL _returns, and lights a lamp. She draws the curtain, and
 joins_ WILLIE CAMPBELL _at the window_.]

_M’Pherson_: If you gentlemen in London think so highly of Mr. Burns,
couldn’t you do something better for him than that?

_Fenton_: Indeed, from Mr. Burns’s reputation, I could not have
supposed such expedients necessary.

_Willie_: Reputation makes no bannocks in these parts, sir.

_Burns_: Gentlemen, my apologies. These affairs can be no concern of
yours. What news have you in London, sir, from France?

_Fenton_: The excesses of the revolution increase, I fear.

_Burns_: And yet we shall have to emulate the movement, you will find.
We must earnestly hope that it can be done constitutionally. Reform
without violence, we may trust, but reform it must be.

_Fenton_: All our best political thought would agree with you, Mr.
Burns.

_Burns_: Here’s to a free Britain, gentlemen, and a sense of the
people’s rights in our legislators.

                                                         [_They drink._]

_Fenton_: And with your toast, sir, the name of Mr. Pitt.

_Burns_: I’ll substitute a greater name, by your leave, sir. I’ll give
you George Washington.

_Fenton_: Isn’t that rather controversial ground, Mr. Burns?

_Burns_: Then we’ll drink to our own fancy--Pitt or Washington.

                                                   [_They drink again._]

_Burns_: And now, gentlemen, let us forget all budgets, state and
domestic. Good fellowship heeds no governments.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
      What wad ye wish for mair, man?
    Wha kens, before his life may end,
      What his share may be of care, man?

    Then catch the moments as they fly,
      And use them as ye ought, man:
    Believe me, happiness is shy,
      And comes not aye when sought, man.

_Jean_ (_to the_ GIRL): Are the children quiet?

_The Girl_: Yes, Mrs. Burns.

_Burns_ (_to_ FENTON): You have children, sir?

_Fenton_: No, I regret to say.

_Burns_: I don’t deserve them, but I have.

_Willie_: They’re a great expense.

_The Girl_: Hold your tongue, Willie.

_M’Pherson_: I’ll be going. Good-evening to you.

_Fenton_: I too. I only wished to present Mr. Hamilton’s letter this
evening. Will you honour me by your company at noon to-morrow? You too,
Mrs. Burns?

_Jean_: My husband will be very pleased, I’m sure. I’ll be busy here
though, thank you.

_Fenton_: At noon then, sir. Good-evening, madam.

_Jean_: Good-evening.

                                             [_He goes with_ M’PHERSON.]

_The Girl_: It’s a great thing to be famous like that, with folks
travelling from London to look at you.

_Willie_: Aye, it’s great. But it’s not very profitable.

_Burns_: Jean, Jean--I ought to be conquering the world, and I’ve crept
into favour at Dumfries at seventy pounds a year.

_Jean_: Don’t trouble, Robin. It’s all right.

_Burns_: ‘Here’s a bottle and an honest friend’--not many of your
honesty, Jean.

 [_He moves to fill his glass from the bowl on the table, but the_ GIRL
 _skilfully removes it before he gets there_.]

_Burns_ (_looking at his empty glass_): I--well, you’re right, maybe.

_Willie_ (_rising_): Your fame will have a double edge, Mr. Burns,
that’s what it is.

 [_He goes out into the yard, taking the bridle._]

_The Girl_: Shall I tell them you’ll come up, Mrs. Burns?

_Jean_: In a few minutes.

_Burns_: Tell them I’ll come too.

                             [_The_ GIRL _goes through into the house_.]

_Burns_: Oh, I know what you are thinking. I’ve no control, you say to
yourself.

_Jean_: Robin boy, I’m not complaining. The land’s been disheartening,
I know. And you have tried. But it makes it so hard for us.

_Burns_: What has Ellen Fergus been saying?

_Jean_: Nothing--just chatter.

_Burns_: I know--I’ve seen her watching me go down to Ramsay’s. But the
girl there is nothing--a mopsy.

_Jean_: You’ve no need to excuse yourself, Robin. I don’t ask it. But
the dearest thing I have in the world is my pride for you.

_Burns_: I’m not worth it. I’m a miserable, havering gipsy. You are my
only refuge, Jean. I’ll shut the yard gate. Then we’ll go up to see
them.

                                                        [_He goes out._]

_Jean_ (_putting her sewing away, sings_):

    The day returns, my bosom burns,
      The blissful day we twa did meet;
    Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d,
      Ne’er summer sun was half sae sweet.
    Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
      And crosses o’er the sultry line;
    Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
      Heaven gave me more--it made thee mine.

 [BURNS _comes to the door and continues the song_.]

    While day and night can bring delight,
      Or nature aught of pleasure give,
    While joys above my mind can move,
      For thee, and thee alone, I live!
    When that grim foe of life below
      Comes in between to make us part,
    The iron hand that breaks our band,
      It breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart!

                                              [_Together they repeat_--]

    When that grim foe of life below
      Comes in between, to make us part,
    The iron hand that breaks our band,
      It breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart!

                             [_Following the_ GIRL _into the house, as_]


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS


SCENE VI

 BURNS’S _house at Dumfries, in July, 1796, five years later_.

 _It is a sweltering afternoon, and_ BURNS, _worn and ill, is seated by
 the open window, looking out on to the street_.

 _Out in the town can be heard a drum and fife band. As it comes nearer
 and passes away_, BURNS _sings with some effort_.

    When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
      And gentle peace returning,
    Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
      And mony a widow mourning;

    I left the lines and tented field,
      Where lang I’d been a lodger,
    My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
      A poor and honest sodger.

                                                      [JEAN _comes in_.]

_Jean_: You mustn’t exhaust yourself, Robin dear.

_Burns_: There’s not much left of me now to spend, my girl. It’s busy
in the town to-day?

_Jean_: Aye. It’s the emigrants. And the volunteers are leaving this
evening.

_Burns_: They’re going to fight the Frenchies, and I’m going to fight
auld Nickie-ben. We’re full of affairs in Scotland to-day.

_Jean_: Mr. Gavin Hamilton is coming to see you.

_Burns_: It’s very attentive of him. He’s welcome. Most of my fine
friends have grown tired of me these years.

_Jean_: You mustn’t say that, Robin.

_Burns_: Why not? It’s true. They wouldn’t look at me across the
street, lots of them, these months past. I don’t blame them. I’ve not
played my game very well, Jean.

_Jean_: There are enquiries for you everywhere in the town. They’re
troubled for you, boy.

_Burns_: It’s kind of them, but it’s late now. Mr. Thompson has sent
the five pounds. I’ve had to turn beggar at the end.

_Jean_: You earned it, you know that.

_Burns_: I know I had to beg.

                                      [_An approaching voice is heard._]

_Burns_: There’s a friend who’s not welcome.

 [HOLY WILLIE _passes the window, his prayer on his lips_.]

    But, Lord, remember me and mine,
    Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
    That I for grace and gear may shine,
          Excell’d by nane,
    And a’ the glory shall be Thine,
          Amen, Amen!

 [_He comes to the door. Twelve years have made no change in him._]

_Holy Willie_: Is the man Burns within?

_Jean_: Mr. Burns is very ill.

_Holy Willie_: Aye, so I am informed. (_Coming into the room._) I came
the journey expressly to exhort you to repentance.

_Burns_: I’ve spent my life repenting.

_Holy Willie_: I fear you’ve lived in unbridled pleasure.

_Burns_: You’re a great reconciler to another world, minister.

_Jean_: Will you not leave him in peace?

_Holy Willie_: There’s no peace for the damned. I had little hope of
grace in him. But I wanted my flock to know that I had not failed in my
duty by one of them, though strayed. I’m content.

_Burns_: I’ll never see you again, minister, God be praised. But
listen, a parting word to you.

                                                           [_He sings._]

    O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
      Sae pious and sae holy,
    Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
      Your neebours’ fauts and folly!
    Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
      Supply’d wi’ store o’ water,
    The heapèt happer’s ebbing still,
      And still the clap plays clatter.

    Then gently scan your brother man,
      Still gentler sister woman;
    Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,
      To step aside is human:
    One point must still be greatly dark,
      The moving _Why_ they do it;
    And just as lamely can ye mark
      How far perhaps they rue it.

_Holy Willie_: Stubborn in your pride, even at death’s gate. I’ll
persevere with you no longer. Repent, repent--

                                [_He goes out, his voice fading with_--]

    But, Lord, remember me and mine,
    Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
    That I for gear and grace may shine,
          Excell’d by nane,
    And a’ the glory shall be Thine,
          Amen, Amen!

_Jean_: I should have kept him out. He vexed you.

_Burns_: I’ll never be vexed again. He’s some trick of the Lord’s.
Jean girl, I’ll say it now, and then we’ll not speak of it again.
You’ve been the one sure thing in this world for me. I’m tired, and
I leave it all gladly, but you, and them you’ve given me. Bless you
everlastingly, and forgive me for my poor soul’s sake, and I’ll need no
other forgiveness on earth.

_Jean_ (_kisses him, and sings_):

    Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
    Ae fareweel, and then, for ever!
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
    Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
    While the star of hope she leaves him?
    Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me:
    Dark despair around benights me.

_Burns_ (_taking up the song_):

    Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
    Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
    Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
    Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
    Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
    Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

_Together_:

    Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
    Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
    Never met--or never parted,
    We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

_Burns_: There, lass. Now we must be stout-hearted. Ah, here’s Mr.
Hamilton coming.

 [GAVIN HAMILTON _passes the window_. JEAN _goes to the door_.]

_Jean_ (_showing him in_): It’s good of you to come, Mr. Hamilton.

_Hamilton_: Well, Robert, my lad. Taking some of your Dumfries air?

_Burns_: Pretty near my last draught of it, Mr. Hamilton.

_Hamilton_: No, no.

_Burns_: Oh, but it is. But I’m easy in my mind for myself now. If
you’ll do what you can to see that things here don’t break up.

_Hamilton_: You can trust us about that. But you mustn’t give up.

_Burns_: I’m old bones before my time, Mr. Hamilton, and I’ll not have
another word of repining in this house.

_Hamilton_: There’s very widespread concern about you, Robert.

_Burns_: Aye? I’ll be a great ceremony, dead. Now, Mr. Hamilton, I
don’t want you to talk for a little. Sit down, just there, will you,
where I can look at a friend that’s never gone back on me.

 [HAMILTON _sits opposite_ BURNS, _and_ JEAN _at her husband’s side_.
 BURNS _seems for a moment to be falling asleep, then there is a sound
 of moving people outside_.]

_Burns_: What’s that?

_Jean_ (_looking out of the window_): It’s the emigrants. They’re
leaving the town.

_Hamilton_: I saw them gathering outside your town hall as I came by.

_Burns_: Aye--they’re going to a new world. Starting a new life. If I
were not the miserable disaster I am, I might be going with them. I
might be going to prove myself in far lands.

 [_The crowd is approaching, singing on its way._]

_Burns_ (_in a new excitement_): Do you hear, Mr. Hamilton--do you
hear, Jean?

 [_The crowd passes the window, singing._ BURNS _and the others taking
 up the song_.]

    Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
      And never brought to mind?
    Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
      And days o’ lang syne?

        For auld lang syne, my dear,
          For auld lang syne,
        We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
          For auld lang syne.

    We twa hae run about the braes,
      And pou’d the gowans fine;
    But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot
      Sin’ auld lang syne.

        For auld lang syne, my dear,
          For auld lang syne,
        We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
          For auld lang syne.

_Burns_ (_as the song fades away_): Do you hear that? They’re singing
my song--they’re taking me out into the world with them. The darlings!

 [_Again he relapses into his quietness for a moment. Then in the
 distance is heard the pipes of a Scots regiment on march._]

_Burns_ (_rousing_): Listen--listen. It’s my volunteers--they’re going
to the wars.

                                     [_The pipes come down the street._]

_Burns_: They’re marching away, and I’ll never see them come back.

                       [_The pipers lead the regiment past the window._]

_Burns_ (_forcing himself up, and waving his muffler out of the window
to them_): God go with you, my lads--Scotland for ever.

                             [_As they pass down the street, he sings._]

  Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
  Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
  Welcome to your gory bed,
        Or to victorie!

  Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
  See the front of battle lour;
  See approach proud Edward’s pow’r--
        Chains and slaverie!

  By Oppression’s woes and pains!
  By your sons in servile chains!
  We will drain our dearest veins
        But they shall be free!

  Lay the proud usurpers low!
  Tyrants fall in every foe!
  Liberty’s in every blow!--
        Let us do, or die!

  Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
  Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
  Welcome to your gory bed,
        Or to victorie!

 [_He sinks back exhausted into the arms of_ HAMILTON _and_ JEAN, _and_]


                           THE CURTAIN FALLS




Transcriber’s Note


In this file, text in _italics_ is indicated by underscores.

The following changes were made to the text as printed:

Page 3: “why, the quality’s serving women would laugh at it” changed to
“why, the quality’s serving women would laugh at it.”

Page 22: “Some of the others at another table are playing cards_).
We were friends, Nell, you and I.” changed to “Some of the others at
another table are playing cards_): We were friends, Nell, you and I.”

Page 43: “out by the candle-light of the stairway” changed to “out by
the candlelight of the stairway”

Page 71: “BURNS (_to full chorus, is singing_),” changed to “_Burns_
(_to full chorus, is singing_),”

Page 76: “_White_: A song, a song” changed to “_White_: A song, a song.”

Page 109: “Heaven gave me more--it made thee mine” changed to “Heaven
gave me more--it made thee mine.”

Page 111: “auld Nickie Ben” changed to “auld Nickie-ben”