Mrs. Stewart: But that would be impossible.
Burns: Believe me, it is common. My plough lends a virtue to flattery.
Mrs. Stewart: There is honest esteem as well—delight.
Burns: I am as sensitive to it, madam, as the top leaves to the last ripple of evening wind. You are bountiful.
The Duchess (speaking across): Mrs. Ferguson, do you think we might ask Mr. Burns to sing one of his songs himself?
Mrs. Ferguson: If he would be so kind.
Burns: Madam, if her Grace so compliments me. Will Mrs. Stewart play an air for me?
Muir: Couldn’t it be something with a chorus—eh? Nothing like opening the lungs, sir (to Robertson).
Robertson: I regret, your lordship, I am no Orpheus.
Muir: No, but damme, sir, sing cracked, what odds?