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