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