Robert Burns: A Play, by John Drinkwater—A Project Gutenberg eBook

Produced by: Thomas Frost, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

ROBERT BURNS

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?

[Towards the end of the prayer, Burns has come back, and stands listening; as the prayer closes, Holy Willie turns and sees him.]

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

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

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

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!

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!

Burns: Beware the end. Had he been a cleaner gospeller, that might be a thing to[Pg 11] 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.

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.

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.

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

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: 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.

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

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?

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.’

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

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[Pg 21] these things, and kept the heart true steel within you, like Tam Laurie there?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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![Pg 25] The girl’s a scandal to my name, but she’s not for you. Let her be proud of it alone.

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[Pg 26] 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.

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[Pg 27] 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.

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,[Pg 28] my hearties—come and teach the gentlemen to say their grace.

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

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.

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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Hamilton (taking the warrant, and speaking to the Officer): Perhaps you could keep this till to-morrow afternoon?

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

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?

The Landlord: I suppose, Mr. Hamilton (going to the slate), let me see, 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,[Pg 42] and the Beast of the Apocalypse. I’m getting too old to be called before the sunrise.

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.

Miss Taylor (very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not for poetry): And you say he gave it to you?

Miss Taylor: Rather indelicate, don’t you think—that piece about snowy feet?

Mrs. Ferguson (benign and easy, the professor’s wife): I like that tune so much—Afton Water, isn’t it?

Mrs. Montgomery (marble, more the duchess than Gordon herself): I must say, Mrs. Ferguson, your young lion behaves himself quite prettily.

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?

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.

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[Pg 49] to encourage him. And one of his poems, I hear, is quite friendly to the Devil.

Walter Scott (moving from his book to Mrs. Stewart): Have you any more of his poems, ma’am?

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. 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.

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

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

Miss Taylor (to Robertson): That was extremely generous of you, dear Mr. Robertson.

Muir (immensely pleased with the incident): Yes, but a damned blockhead. That’s straight riding, you must allow that, sir.

Miss Taylor: It’s all very well, Lord Muir, but it’s most unbecoming to call a reverend gentleman a—h’m—blockhead.

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—

Muir (to Mrs. Montgomery, under his breath): That’s the kind of poetry I can understand.

Mrs. Stewart (touching the piano very lightly to the air of ‘Afton Water’): Do you find Edinburgh agreeable?

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

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?

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).

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

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[Pg 59] 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.

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 (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?

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.[Pg 61] (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: 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: 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.

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

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.

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.

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

The Duchess (rising): Well, your poet has captivated me entirely, Mrs. Ferguson. I return[Pg 66] to Gordon Castle next week, Mr. Burns. I hope you will visit us there.

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.

Burns (looking at his watch): I must go. Mrs. Ferguson will be tired of me. You sang enchantingly.

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?

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.

Burns: It is generous of you to think it. O, I am not ungrateful, believe me. I have been[Pg 68] 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.

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.

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

Ferguson (going out with him): Very flattering, I assure you. Most gratifying you must find it—

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

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

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.

Muir (beating the table): There’s no eloquence like it. Was not Demosthenes an orator? Then was Demosthenes drunk.

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

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

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.

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.

Burns (rising): It is a great honour to be in your convivial company. They are fools outside, but we are Solomons, with the perpetual[Pg 74] 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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 (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.

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.

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

The Girl: This has just been left for Mr. Burns. (Giving him a note.) A lady in a coach.

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.

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?

Simpson (reading): ‘Remember your friends. They remember you. Be just to yourself. Afton Water.’ (Returning the letter.) An obscure reference.

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

The Young Man: It’s different for women, I[Pg 88] suppose. I should be scared of wedding—having to cleave to one, as they say.

The Girl: It would follow if I was the one—I’d have you understand that, Willie Campbell.

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.

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

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

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.

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[Pg 90] 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.

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

Burns: It’s hard for you, lass. I’ve got a head often enough damned well full of resolutions,[Pg 91] 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.

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.

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

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[Pg 92] 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.

Burns: It’s a miracle of your own heart. But there—Dumfries may mend us. (Drinking.) To the providence of Dumfries.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

Mrs. Fergus: Good-evening, Mr. M’Pherson.[Pg 99] I’m told Mrs. M’Pherson is not looking well.

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.

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.

Burns: Time’s a fleet colt, Andrew. (Handing a glass.) Here’s your good health.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

Burns: And yet we shall have to emulate the movement, you will find. We must earnestly hope that it can be done constitutionally.[Pg 105] Reform without violence, we may trust, but reform it must be.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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: 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.

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

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.

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

Burns: Why not? It’s true. They wouldn’t look at me across the street, lots of them,[Pg 112] 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.

Holy Willie: Aye, so I am informed. (Coming into the room.) I came the journey expressly to exhort you to repentance.

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.

Holy Willie: Stubborn in your pride, even at death’s gate. I’ll persevere with you no longer. Repent, repent—

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Jean (looking out of the window): It’s the emigrants. They’re leaving the town.

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.

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!

Burns (rousing): Listen—listen. It’s my volunteers—they’re going to the wars.

Burns (forcing himself up, and waving his[Pg 120] muffler out of the window to them): God go with you, my lads—Scotland for ever.

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!—
[Pg 121]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!

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ROBERT BURNS

THE CHARACTERS IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE ARE

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI