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!