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!