Chapter II: Part 2

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”