Burns (his hand going uselessly to his pockets): Yes, landlord. How much is it?
The Landlord: Four shillings and a penny.
Burns: Four—not a penny even. There now. Wouldn’t one of you gentlemen—?
Holy Willie: For shame, young man.
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.
[Nell cleans the slate.]
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.
[To the tune of ‘I am a bard of no regard,’ he sings, in a passion of conviction now.]
Is there, for honest poverty,