University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Caerlaverock Castle.
Halbert Comyne alone.
Com.
'Tis said there is an hour i' the darkness when
Man's brain is wondrous fertile, if nought holy
Mix with his musings. Now, whilst seeking this,
I've worn some hours away, yet my brain's dull,
As if a thing call'd grace stuck to my heart,
And sicken'd resolution. Is my soul tamed
And baby-rid wi' the thought that flood or field
Can render back, to scare men and the moon,
The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb?
And what if't tis so? Shall I lose the crown
Of my most golden hope, because its circle
Is haunted by a shadow? Shall I go wear
Five summers of fair looks,—sigh shreds of psalms,—
Pray i' the desart till I fright the fox,—
Gaze on the cold moon and the cluster'd stars,
And quote some old man's saws 'bout crowns above,—
Watch with wet eyes at death-beds, dandle the child,
And cut the elder whistles of him who knocks
Red earth from clouted shoon. Thus may I buy
Scant praise from tardy lips; and when I die,
Some ancient hind will scratch, to scare the owl,
A death's head on my grave-stone. If I live so,
May the spectres dog my heels of those I slew
I' the gulph of battle; wise men cease their faith
In the sun's rising; soldiers no more trust
The truth of temper'd steel. I never loved him.—
He topt me as a tree that kept the dew
And balmy south wind from me: fair maids smiled;
Glad minstrels sung; and he went lauded forth,
Like a thing dropt from the stars. At every step
Stoop'd hoary heads unbonneted; white caps
Hung i' the air; there was clapping of hard palms,
And shouting of the dames. All this to him
Was as the dropping honey; but to me
'Twas as the bitter gourd. Thus did I hang,
As his robe's tassel, kissing the dust, and flung
Behind him for boy's shouts,—for cotman's dogs
To bay and bark at. Now from a far land,
From fields of blood, and extreme peril I come,
Like an eagle to his rock, who finds his nest
Fill'd with an owlet's young. For he had seen
One summer's eve a milkmaid with her pail,
And, 'cause her foot was white, and her green gown
Was spun by her white hand, he fell in love:
Then did he sit and pen an amorous ballad;
Then did he carve her name in plum-tree bark;
And, with a heart e'en soft as new press'd curd,
Away he walk'd to wooe. He swore he loved her:
She said, cream curds were sweeter than lord's love:
He vow'd 'twas pretty wit, and he would wed her:
She laid her white arm round the fond lord's neck,
And said his pet sheep ate her cottage kale,
And they were naughty beasts. And so they talk'd;
And then they made their bridal bed i' the grass,
No witness but the moon. So this must pluck
Things from my heart I've hugg'd since I could count
What horns the moon had. There has been with me
A time of tenderer heart, when soft love hung
Around this beadsman's neck such a fair string
Of what the world calls virtues, that I stood
Even as the wilder'd man who dropp'd his staff,
And walk'd the way it fell to. I am now
More fiery of resolve. This night I've wiped
The milk of kindred mercy from my lips;
I shall be kin to nought but my good blade,
And that when the blood gilds it that flows between
Me and my cousin's land.—Who's there?

Enter Dougan and Hogan.
Dougan.
'Tis I,
Come from the green-wood bough, where I have dug
A den for stricken deer. 'Tis in a spot
Where moonshine is a marvel; and the sun
May look from the mid heaven, and find it not.
An owl sat high, and whoop'd: a raven croak'd;
A huge black grim one visible on a tree:
Good Edward's heart beat audible with fear,
And thrice he swore the hole was deep enough.

Hogan.
I have walk'd forth on the side o' the salt sea;
The fisher's nets are stretch'd upon the beach,
Nor is there foot of living thing abroad,
Nor sound in the wide world. By the sheer cliff
I've moor'd the boat; three willing strokes of oars
May launch it far beyond the plummet's depth.

Com.
'Tis done, like men well skill'd in the good deeds
That from their foreheads wipe the world's hot sweat.
And now, this night, let every look be mirth;
Let none cry havoc as he draws the sword,
But leap up, when I give the signal—thus,—
With ready swords, and all as mute as shadows.
When good Lord Walter 's to the greenwood gone,
And when his dame, and her young ballad maker,
Have tasted Solway's saltest surge; we'll raise
The cry of men at whose throats, when asleep,
Murder made bare his knife; and we'll awake
The castle with a wild and clamorous outcry;
And we'll paint thick our cheeks with seeming terror;
Then, all at once, tell of a fearful 'sault
Made on the tower by arm'd and desperate men.

Dougan.
We'll do it, and do it quick as a thunder clap.

(Exeunt Dougan and Hogan.)
Comyne.
To night a joyous husbandman has call'd
Lord Maxwell's menials to a merry-making;
There, too, goes Marmaduke, and with him goes
That bonnie maiden whose dark glance has given me
Something to sigh for. Now will I go look
Upon their mirth as one who noteth nought,
And then I'll court my fortunes with my sword.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell.
Sir M.
How sweet is this night's stillness:—soft and bright
Heaven casts its radiance on the streams, and they
Lie all asleep and tell the vaulted heaven
The number of her stars. I see the doves
Roosting in pairs on the green pine tree tops;
The distant ocean 'mid the moonlight heaves,
All cluster'd white with sleeping water fowl.—
Now where the moon her light spills on yon towers,
I turn my sight, but not that I may try
If her chaste circle holds a world more worth
Man's worshipping than this. See—see—oh see
Lights at her window!—blessed is the air
Her blooming cheek that kisses:—looks she forth,
To see if earth hold aught that's worth her love?
O let me steal one look at her sweet face—
For she doth still turn her dark eyes from me;
And she is silent as yon silver star
That shows her dwelling place.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

A Farm House.
Simon Graeme, Mark Macgee, Penpont, Hinds, Maidens, and Musicians.
Gra.
Come, bound all to the floor—from the sweet maid
I' the middle o' her teens, to the staid dame
Who was young men's delight i' the green year
Afore mirk-monday. Haste; leap shoulder high,
Ye gladsome lads; here is no standing corn;
Nought harder than white fingers for your touch.
What! must the maidens wooe ye? I have seen,
And that's no old tale, when I've made them spring
And pant in dancing like the hunted hart.
Come, screw your pegs, man—make the mole that digs
Five fathom from your heels, run back in his hole,
Scared by the gladsome clamour:—now begin.

Musician.
I'll play a tune, a serious one and sweet.

(Plays.)
First Hind.
Cease, cease thou saintly kittler o' catgut;
I'd liefer shake my legs to th' moan o' a storm
Than to such dolorous music. Faith, I'd make
Music far sweeter with a wooden bowl,
And two horn spoons—or may I kiss nae mair
The lips o' Jenny Jop—here where she stands.

Sec. Hind.
Preserveus! let him play what tune he likes;
I'd dance as gaily to the “babes i' the wood,”
As to “green sleeves”—so let's have the douce tune;
We'll make it soon a wanton ane, I warrant thee.
Enter Penpont, singing.
Here's steaming punch, and haggis reeking rich;
Sound of tight fiddle strings, and smacking, too,
Of maiden's lips. Now, if their lips in kissing
Gave crowns and kingdoms, such like dainty sweets
Are not for Auld Penpont—keep, woeful man,
Thy grey hairs from temptation. (Sings.)


Graeme.
Thou'rt welcome as the May-flower—though thy locks
Have a Decemberish look.

Penpont.
How's Simon Graeme
Of Kittlenaket?—e'en gaun leaping round
Amang the dames, and wi' a touch o' the hand
And word i' the ear making their cheeks the hue
O' the rose in July. That's a gallant trade,
And of old standing. I maun look and sigh— (Sings.)


Graeme.
Come, cast aside thy bonnet and thy staff,
And throw to care complaint about grey locks;
There's mirth in thee might win a widow's heart:
Faith, late I saw thee leaping rafter high,
And calling loud, “Maids look at sixty-eight.”

Pen.
Thou'rt one o' the choice spirits o' the earth;
Lend me thy nief—thou keepest mirth and humour
Alive amang us;—but for Simon Graeme,
Our converse would be controversy;—and mirth
Would have an end. Gude keep the blythe good man
Of Kittlenaket from the hapless gift
Of preaching and expounding—and keep too
(To Mark)
Sic gifts from Mark Macgee: I've seen the day
Thou wert a sinful smiler, and a singer
Of sappy sangs, such as make merry maids
Look through their lily fingers, and cry “fye.”

Macgee.
So thou art laughing yet: could I but catch thee
Singing a psalm tune seriously—'twere mirth
Might serve for seven year.

Penpont.
'Faith, men grow lean
On prayer alone: I never knew but one
Who wax'd the lustier for't; Sue Sighaway,
Of Cummertrees, who pray'd—See! Simon, see!
Well done, my merry masters—'faith, ye set
My frozen blood a moving, and I think (Sings.)

SCENE IV.

Farm House continued.
Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, and Mary Douglas, the latter in a rustic disguise.
Sir M.
My love, thou'rt lovelier in thy russet dress,
Thy trim busk'd bodice, thy corn braided locks,
Than in thy garments shower'd with gold and pearl.
Once every year when this sweet hour comes round,
Thou'lt pluck the diamonds from thy inky locks;
Cast off thy robes with riches in their hem
Might buy a baron's land; array thee in
This modest russet, and with him thou lovest
Thus enter to the dance.

Mary Douglas.
Now hearken, love;
Among the snooded maidens, name me not;
Nor 'mongst the white-mutch'd dames.

Graeme.
Now such a sight
Might render old eyes young, and pluck the crutch
From cripples. My young lord, thrice blessed be
Thy gentleness, and blessed too this maid
Who has so white a hand. Room! ho, there! room!
And, minstrel, waken thou thy merriest string;
Room, there! room! This proud night shall be hallowed.

Sir M.
Is this thy wife, kind Simon? We shall make
Thy hall roof wag to its remotest raft:
Thou'rt welcomer than joyous-eyed fifteen.

Enter Halbert Comyne.
Com.
(Aside.)
So this is she who wears the russet gown?
I know her by the motion of her foot;
Those inky ringlets on her ivory neck,
Moving and shedding with her sugar breath.
Move not thy hand so; there is magic in't;
Nor look on me with those dark eyes, lest thou
Make my heart's rancour kindlier than new milk.
Lovest thou this cream-curd stripling? hast thou vow'd
Thy beauties to a ballad-maker's pen?
Reap not this green unprofitable ear,
Leaving the ripe ear to a meaner sickle;
Nor pull the green fruit, when the full fair bough
Stoops down its golden harvest to thy hand.
(To her)
Where grows the corn this snowy hand must cut?
The flocks, where go they which these dark eyes tend?
Where stands the shealing thou dost trim at eve,
And deck with thy rare beauty?

Mary Douglas.
Simon Graeme,
Here is a reaper, and a cattle keeper,
A trimmer too of cottages, a hind
Skilful in cream and curd: hast thou ripe corn
Untouch'd by sickle? straying herds, which lowe
Upon the mountain green?

First Hind.
Lord, Robin! look;
Know'st thou this bonnie maiden? May I ne'er
Stride 'tween plow stilts again, or with my foot
Tread down the fresh-turn'd furrow, if I e'er
Saw such a pair of een.

Second Hind.
My certe, lad,
She's come o' nae skimm'd milk, nae kilted kimmer,
With a cog o' kitted whey; she is a pear
That grows too lofty for thy reach; her locks,
Gemm'd in their native gloss, like the bright wing
Of a Caerlaverock raven, wore, last night,
More diamonds than the bloom'd broom drops of dew.

First Hind.
Dew-drops an' diamonds! comes she o' the blood
That wore the sinful leaf? then sinful man
May speak to corrupt woman.

Sir M. Maxwell.
What is this?
What crimsons thus thy temple lilies?

Mary Douglas.
Come,
O come away, for something evil haunts us.

(Exeunt.)
Com.
Away, thou rose-lipp'd temptress! thou hast made
My steel'd heart softer than the sweet maid's eyes
When her love leaves her. Thou hast fled from me
As ring-doves fly when the dark eagle's wings
Are hung in heaven; but I shall suck thee down,
As the serpent sucks the song lark when he sings
Aneath the morning-star. That thou art lovely,
I have not seldom sworn; that I love thee,
I have some such suspicion. Cursed fool!
Has thy heart grown into white curd, that maids'
Soft hands can mould it thus? Away, away,
Thou painted piece of loveliness, away!
I go to win a noble game to-night,
Where coronets are play'd for.—
Now he who wears the bauble which I covet,
Wears too my mother's image; and the blood
That reddens in his veins and mine is mix'd
Past my sword's separation. These are times
When kindred blood is like cold water. Men
Ask God to guide their weapons, ere they bore
The breasts that warm'd them. With a few smooth words
O' the saints they soothe their consciences, and let
Their swords be bound or loosen'd by the tongue
Of some shrewd sly enthusiast; one who makes
The words of men slay far more bodies, than
The Scripture saves of souls. I do not league
With men who use my strength and sword, and wear
The glories which I toil'd for; who give me
The bloody ambush, and the dubious field,
And keep themselves power, gold, and pastures green:
I'll share with none my doom or my redemption.

(Exit.)
Mac.
Now, Simon Graeme, I'll put my bonnet on;
My heart is sadly out of sorts; I'll home,
While the young maids are laughing.

Graeme.
Mark Macgee,
Thou hast a look that stays entreaty's tongue,
Else I should tempt thee with some rare device
O' rustic wit. We lack not here a hind,
Who wraps a soul of humour in a grave
And curious aspect. Soon shall he come in,
Palsied with seeming age; his hoar locks hung
Thin on his temples; crooked will he seem,
And tottering on a crutch. Straight will he look,
As some fiend chased him; and he'll sorely wail
The wilfulness of flesh. The kirk's rebuke,
Will be his theme; and he will sing, or say,
How the preacher rail'd against hot blood, and he
Promised amendment in such merry sort,
That the incensed and ancient dames leap'd up
And shower'd their psalm-books at him. Yet thou'lt go?
Then I'll take brand and bonnet straight, and see thee
Safe through Caerlaverock wood.

(Exeunt.)
Pen.
Now rise, my young men: faith, we're blythely rid
O' these wise saws and reliques of morality;
They rode like the night-mare on the neck of mirth.
Come, make thy thairms cheep merrier, man, and merrier:
What look'st thou sour for, man? thou 'gnarled staff
O' Cameronian crab-tree; thou betrayer
O' the godly psalm tune to the graceless legs
O' the wag and wanton. Thou makest the tup-thairm
Moan as if't lay aneath the knife, and bringest
Sounds from the tombs, and dread of rotten bones:
I'd rather hear a peel'd skull preaching with
A shank-bone 'tween its teeth. Thy bread-winner
Sheds tears, positive tears, and wails like wind
'Mongst gibbeted bones. Now give him elbow-room,
My rosie quean, or me a kiss. Here, man,
Taste thou this tass o' sinful spirit; 'twill put
A living tongue atween a deadman's lips.
Come, turn the bottom of the cup to the moon,
Astride 'twill set thee on her highest horn.
It simmers 'mang the dry dust o' thy throat:
Thou drinkest most devoutly. Up, maids, up!
Here is a fiddler with inspired strings.

Musician.
What tune wilt have? Shall I play, “Kiss me fast,
My mother's coming;” or, “Sweet Nelly Wemyss;”
Or, “Oh to be married, if this be the way?”
I'll make my tight strings speak o' thy old tricks,
As plain as Mess John did i' the Session book.

SCENE V.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Simon Graeme and Mark Macgee.
Gra.
Put hot haste from thy footsteps; there's no lack
Of my stiff joints upon my hall floor. Hark!
The abounding din of merry feet, the loud
And rising note o' the fiddle! Let us have
An hour of moon-light converse, and our path
Shall be where few frequent.

Macgee.
Let's have grave talk;
'Tis night's sedatest hour, even drowsy twelve.
Forsake this footpath for the soft greensward:
I love the greenwood better than the road
Where knights show golden spurs.

Graeme.
We'll seek the grove,
Where cushats love to breed in summer time;
The way is sweet as that to a maid's window.

Mac.
Is this grave talk? Is this the hour of joy—
Hast thou forgot, man, 'twas e'en in this grove,
Some twenty years since,—by the heart o' corn,
One o' the Galloway gods, I doubt its nearer
The edge of twenty-five—

Graeme.
Say twenty-eight;
And add some two to that: dates need not stay
The telling of a tale.

Macgee.
'Twas in this grove,
No matter in what year; 'twas summer time,
When leaves were green, and honeysuckles hung,
Dropping their honey dew: with a sweet one,
With locks of gold, and eyes of beaming blue,
Thou satest aneath a bush; this self-same thorn;
I know it by its shape and stately stem;
But it doth lack those fragrant tassels now,
That canopy of blossom, which hung o'er,
Enamour'd of her beauty.

Graeme.
'Tis the bush.
I have a reverence for thy meanest twig,
Thou fairest bush o' the forest.

Macgee.
As thou satest
With her o' thy heart aside thee, there came one,
Booted and spurr'd, and spiced and perfumed o'er,
One might have smelt him o'er five miles of fen;
And by his left side sat a pretty sword,
And on his gentle hand there was a glove;
And he did pray thy fair one, for the sake
Of ancient blood and gentle kin, to leave
The rough rude rustics to their snooded dames.
How thou didst fume! and with a slender wand,
Of two years' growth, didst chase him, sword and all,
Even till he pray'd and panted.

Graeme.
What is this?
Mercy in heaven! a new-made grave gapes wide
Unto the stars, and from some murderer's hand
Craves for its morsel.

Macgee.
A deep grave, new dug!
Dread God, but this is strange! The earth 's fresh turn'd,
And here are footsteps large.

Graeme.
My friend, my friend,
This is hell's right-hand labour. Draw thy sword,
For God has sent us here.

Macgee.
Staunch by thy side,
Even as I've done through life I'll do; as one—

Gra.
Soft! soft! I hearken coming footsteps; see,
A faint light glimmering underneath the boughs!
Come, let us stand beneath this holly. Some
Shall find a corner in that grave themselves,
Who seek to fill it without leave of me.

(Exeunt under the holly-tree.)

SCENE VI.

Caerlaverock Wood.
Enter Hubert Dougan and Neal; the latter bearing the murdered body of Lord Maxwell, the former with a lantern.
Neal.
Hist! hear'st thou nought? or was't the deadman's hand
That shook the hazel bough? 'Tis a dreary place.
(Chaunts.)
O for one drop of most unrighteous brandy!
I'm all as cold 's as corse.

Dougan.
I wish thou wert one.
Can'st thou not rather sigh some scrap of prayer?
Thou'lt waken all the ravens. Some sad hind,
Whose lass a pedlar from his arms seduced
With a remnant of red ribbon, here perchance
Talks to the owl.

Neal.
Prayer! I can mind no prayer,
Not even a shred, though I were doom'd for lack
To slumber with my back-load.—Curse thy haste;
I've spilt a mouthful of the rarest spirit
E'er charm'd the toothache.
(Chaunts.)

Dougan.
The den we dug for thy sweet back-load is
Grown solid ground again. I thought 'twas here,
Under this blasted pine. Come, soft, man, soft!
Confound these honeysuckle twigs, they hang
Their tendrils in one's teeth.

Neal.
(Chaunts.)
He's living, Hubert, he's living! his right hand
Has given me a staggerer i' th' teeth. Curse on
Hab Comyne's fears; we might have denn'd him deep
I' the marble floor, beyond a sleuth hound's scent,
Or cast him in the deep and silent sea.

Macgee.
(Aside.)
These are two fiends who haunt the saintly steps
Of covenanting Comyne. They work his will
When he but moves his finger.

Graeme.
They've brought work
Of murder's shaping: stay, let us list all,
And eke their broken utterings together;
And run the track of murder's foot till 't reach
The threshold o' the plotter.

Neal.
Hubert, I hear
Men's tongues—nay, stay, 'tis but a mouse i' the grass;
And yet mine ear shaped it like human speech.

Dougan.
And what o' that? a mouse may chirp like a man;
A dead lord's hand lives when the green bough waves it.
Fear is a bogglish follower. Here's the grave;
Measure it, lord; feel if it's cut to fit thee.
Hab Comyne swore thou wert but a sad lord,
And a most sorry beadsman. From his hands
Thou hadst a passage to heaven, bloody and brief.
And yet thou braved us nobly. When thou saw
The rude steel near thee, I see yet thine eye
Lighten as thou smote the foremost. Oh thy look,
As thy shrieking lady saw thee; it might make
The stars burn down from heaven, and the clear moon
Descend from the sky, that men might see to hunt
Us to destruction.

Neal.
Thou wilt preach about it,
Uttering fine words and sayings, sugar smooth,
Till the wild birds will learn to sing the tale;
The stupid owl to whoop it in day-light;
And the chased hart will couch upon the grave,
That men may find out murder.

Dougan.
Coward priest,
Why didst thou leave the pulpit? Thou didst drown
Thy fears in foaming flagons; didst awake
With lewd song and wild riot the bright sun
That rose, nor shamed thee; thou didst find thy love
Among the dames whom even seafaring men
Shunn'd like the whirlpool; and thou didst blaspheme
Till profanity grew sick. Fly from my sight,
Nor stay where brave men are. To thee I speak not;
But with my heart I commune, where I find
What sickens contemplation: curdling blood
Will smell i' the nose of justice, smother'd 'neath
All the Siberian snow. To mine eyes come,
From the earth's centre, arm'd and fiery shapes;
Cherubim's blades are bared. Beneath my feet
The grass seems growing daggers. No more now
I'll look that way—no more.

Graeme.
Look this way then,
Damn'd murderer; 'tis the last time thou wilt look
An honest man i' the face.

Dougan.
What devil art thou?
If thou'rt not framed of sterner stuff than man,
Thou'lt howl beneath this steel.

(Draws his sword.)
Graeme.
Now, Hubert Dougan,
Stand from that noble corse: I will not mix
The holy blood that dyes his garments through
And stains the grass, with the rank gore that makes
The fires of hell so grim. So thus I greet thee.

(Fight.)
Macgee.
I know thee well; and all who see thy face
Shrink back, and say, a villain. Curse the sea
That spared thee for such havoc! Now go howl
I' the fiery vault. Thy gentle master soon
Shall wail and quaff the liquid fire with thee.

(Fight; Neal falls.)
Graeme.
Thy look is noble. I war not on souls.
Wilt thou not yield thee? Then say one brief prayer,
Or have at thy heart, for sin has sore subdued thee.

Doug.
I yield not till steel makes me; prayer, to me,
More terrible is than thou. My life has been
Spent in war's stormy surge, and peace and prayer
Are matters of strange name: come, do thy best.
(Fight; Hubert falls.)
My curse now, Halbert Comyne, on thy name!
O! I shall meet and beard thee, in the den
We're doom'd to dwell in, and our strife shall be
Eternal as our torments.

(Dies.)
Graeme.
Mark Macgee,
Now may this night o' the year be mark'd and cursed
With earth and ocean storm; be the sick air
Thick of blue plague; the dew be curdled blood;
May cities quake, and the foundation stones
Of holy temples shake like leaves on waters;
May unbless'd bones of murderers walk the earth;
The fiery shapes of those too hot i' the pit,
Troop to and fro, visible to men's eyes.
Here is a proud star cast from the high heaven,
And no lights left behind.

(Looking on Lord Maxwell.)
Macgee.
As a fair tree,
There liest thou, smote and stricken in the bud.
Thou wert to me the star to the mariner,
The soft sweet rind unto the tender tree.
We've dyed our lips with wild berries together.
Thou satest a worship'd thing i' the world; and thou
Didst wind all hearts about thee. May he rot
Till he infect the moon, he who has laid
Thy blessed head so low!

Graeme.
My friend, leal friend,
Heaven has some fearful purpose in all this;
So let us not our swords draw rash, and shout,
Ho! Comyne, thou 'rt a murderer; thou hast slain
Thy cousin, and his wife, and gentle son,
Usurping their inheritance; and thou
Unworthy art to live. God has his time,
Even as the seasons have; and some dread sign
Seen by all men, and read by us alone—
Some sign on earth, dread, fearful, manifest—
Shall surely warn us, when that his revenge
Is ripe for innocent blood. So sheath thy sword,
And wear not thou thy purpose on thy brow.—
Now let us lay mute earth to earth, and go
In silence home,—stir with the lark, and seek
The castle-gate, and hear what ears may hear.

(They bury the bodies, and exeunt.)