University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Mark Macgee, Penpont, and Servants.
Pen.
Say'st thou, I love red wine better than water;
A rosy lass in hawslock gray, before
A hoary dame in satin and soft silk?
Thou skilful man in tarry fleeces—rot—
Murrain—leaping-illness, and red water;
Comrade to Tweed, to yarrow, Ringwood Whitefoot,
What sayest thou against the pastime sweet
Of lasses' lips.—Thou supperer on sorrow,
And diner on mortification—Scatterer
O' the bleeding members torn from scripture parable,
What sayest thou to wine and maidens' lips?

Macgee.
Now I must measure this fool-man his corn
With his own bushel (aside)
—I have much to say:
Thou turn'st thy back on the milk and honey vale
For the flesh-pots o' the heathen. Thou dost sleep
Where Satan spreads thy pillow;—thy salvation
Is in the larder and the vintage press,
And thy redemption in warm drink. Fear not;
The day will come when thou wilt have hot drink,
Hotter than lips can cool't; companions too,
Grim ones; rosie dames thou'lt lack not, nor
The fauns with cloven heel. There thou'lt carouse
With the plump and willing lady, who doth sit
O' the top of the seven hills.

Penpont.
Thou gifted lecturer
On the discipline of flesh, far hast thou chased
Mirth from the land; the twang of a harp-string
Has not been heard since holy Ramoth Gilead
Lift up his voice against the burning shame
Of satin slippers, and the soot-black sin
Of silken snoods. Now Mark, the wiseman, what
Sayest thou to this?

Macgee.
Aye, aye! thou lovest the pride
And vanity of flesh, and proud apparel,
Perfumed locks, bared bosoms, and the hour
For climbing to maids' casements, chambering,
And wantonness. All have not mired them so
In the lusts of life. Aye, aye! I mind her well;
Jane Proudfoot was her name; proud by the name
Indeed was she, and proud by nature, and
Own'd a rich voice that made a psalm note sound
Sweet as a sinful song. Aye, sore she tried
To catch me in the meshes of the flesh;
'Twas at a Quarrelwood-preaching, many a glance
Threw she on me; shook all her fine apparel,
Like a proud steed rein'd up both neck and eye;
Spread forth her painted plumage, and swam past
Wi' her beauty and her bravery. I sigh'd,
And read my Bible.

Penpont.
Seest thou this pikestaff?
Some thirty years ago it grew i' the wood,
A braw brown hazel, and has borne my weight
Since then to kirk and market—I would dibble it
Deep in the earth, and water it with the hope
Of cracking its brown nuts, had this fair dame,
Jane Proudfoot, thaw'd an icicle like thee.

Enter Mabel Moran.
Mabel.
Now, peace be here; Saint Allan be your watch;
Say, where is Walter Maxwell?

Penpont.
Conscience, carlin!
Hast thou been casting cantraips and witch-pranks
Neath the cold moon till a water-spout fell on thee?
Or hast thou sought the black-bear's dugs, beyond
The polar star, to lythe thy cauldron sauce;
Or pluck'd a drowned sailor from the bottom
Of Solway, for the tar beneath his nail?

Mabel.
Take thou this good brass bodle; hold thy tongue;
Did e'er thy wisdom bring thee so much gain?
Wilt thou prate still? do, if thy weazon 's steel,
And cares for no sharp knife. For they are near
Whose hands would choke thee, teaching men the charm,
To save the world from sinking. Let me go;
Else I shall freeze thee to a drop of ice,
And hang thee 'neath the moon.

Penpont.
Lo! woman, woman,
I care not for thee; in my bonnet stem
I wear a plant can make thy cauldron sauce
As harmless as new milk. For it was thou
Who sunk the boat, with many a precious soul,
Crossing the river for a cast of grace
At godly Quarrelwood. I know thee well.
Thou in the form of a fair youth beset
That saintly damsel, May Macrone, among
The green broom of Dalswinton, and made tight
The string o' her apron. And thou shook'st the Kirk
O' Kirkmabreek aboon sweet Shadrach Peden,
When, to the Galloway heathen, he cried, Clap
The fire o' hell to their tails.

Mabel.
Peace—hold thy peace—
And hold my staff till I seek Walter Maxwell.

Pen.
Thy staff! I'd sooner touch the brazen serpent
That drew the saints to sin. Go cast it down
Into that hot-pit o'er which thou'lt be hung
Till the buckles melt in thy shoon.

Mabel.
Hold my witch staff,
Else I shall turn it to a fisher rod,
And thee into a fiend, and make thee angle
Till doom i' the dub o' darkness.

(Exit.)
Penpont.
Fearful woman!
This staff of hers was cut what time the moon
Was i' the wane, and she works cantraips with it,
There's devilish virtue in it, that from the wisest
Can win their best resolves; can make gray hairs
Grow wanton; make a peasant beldame, clad
In hodan, seem a lady robed in silk
Wi' a sark of sneap-white holland. It should burn,
But tis no earthly fire that may consume it;
And it might turn me, by some cursed prank,
Into a wonder for the world to gaze at.

(Exeunt.)