University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

Coast of Galloway.
Enter Lady Maxwell, and Page.
Lady Maxwell.
Woe! nothing but woe! I saw the blood blades bare,
And my lord's head smote i' the dust. Had I
Clasp'd him unto my bosom, and look'd up—
And to their swords exposed my tender body,
And my voice melting ripe with woe,—implored
Mercy one moment, it had been in vain.
You winged ones, who carry swords to shape
God's retribution out—you holy spirits,
Who fly to the uttermost earth to shield good men
When murder's blade is bare; Oh! where were ye?
God's wrath burns not 'gainst murder, as the creed
For some wise purpose words it. The full moon,
Yea, and the tender stars, look'd on, and smiled,
While my lord's life-blood cried from earth, above
The cherubim's abodes.

Page.
Here come two men;
Shepherds they seem; but let us hear them speak;
They may wear steel plates under their gray weeds.
Men are not what they seem.

(Exeunt.)
Enter Shepherds.
First Shepherd.
Now, peace be here!
A floor of scented cedar! I say, give her
A floor of earth, and lay green rushes on it.

Second S.
Floors of fine cedar! give her a tarr'd stick,
And a teat of tarry wool. She kens far more
Of smearing sheep, and clipping sheep, than dwelling
On bonnie boarded floors.

First Shepherd.
Sad tidings, man!
Sad tidings, man—the douce dame of the glen,
Douce Mabel Moran lies at the last gasp.
Lang John Dargavel saw her wraith yestreen
Come like a gray mist round the hip o' th' hill.

Second S.
We'll have a sample of sleety weather soon,
Rots and elf-arrows; Mabel will be miss'd.

First Shepherd.
Speak low—speak low—it's barely safe to talk
O Mabel's gifts; gifts did I call them? Gifts
From the foul creature that divides the hoof,
And yet's not eatable. Dying did I say?
None born will brag they carried her feet foremost:
Many a fair form she's stretch'd on their last cloth,
And mickle burial wine she's drank—but she
Lives on, and will. I heard John Cameron say,
That sinful Mabel would leave this sad world
With a wild sugh—no coffin, and no shroud.

Second Shepherd.
Prodigious man; but that is horrid.

First Shepherd.
Now
Last night, our Jean, a fearless lassie, went
To watch old Mabel through the night. The dame
Said, Wait not with me, sweet maid, in this desart,
A fair form from the east will ere day dawn
Come here, and comfort me.

Second Shepherd.
Re-enter Lady Maxwell and Page.

First Shepherd.
Gomeral and gowk!
Run, and she'll turn thee to a fox, and turn
Herself into a hound, and hunt ye round
From Burnswark to Barnhourie. Gracious me,
She's cross'd the salt sea in a cockle shell,
A cast of slipper, or flown o'er the foam
O' the Solway, like a sheldrake.

Lady Maxwell.
Youth, return;
I know one of these shepherds well; he'll lead me
To where the good dame lives. Take thou this token
To my fair son. It was his father's gift
Upon our bridal day. Say that I spake not;
But press'd it to my breast, as I do now,
And rain'd it o'er with tears.

(Exit Page.)
First Shepherd.
This is a dame
From the Caerlaverock side, far kenn'd and noted;
She sits by Solway, and says “e'en be 't sae;”
And straight the waters roar, and duck the ships
Like waterfowl. 'Faith, we must speak her fair.

Sec. Shep.
O! soft and fair; O! Saunders, soft and fair:
Who would take that sweet lady for a dame
That deals with devils? Sin has a lovely look.

First Shepherd.
(To Lady Maxwell.)
This is a bonnie morning, but the dew
Lies thick and cold; and there are kindlier things
To gaze on than the deep green sea. So come
With me—even Saunders Wilson, of Witchknowe,
For I love Mabel like mine own heart's blood;
Love her and all her cummers. Come and taste
The warm and kindly heart of corn and milk,
Which we poor hinds call porridge.

Second Shepherd.
Bide ye there!
Ye might come home with me—but three o' my cows
Last week were elf-shot, and we've placed witch-tree
Above our lintel, and my Elspa's famed
For a looser o' witch-knots—one that can stay
Shrewd dames from casting cantraips. So belike,
Douce dame, ye would nae venture to my home,
And I can scarce advise ye.

Lady Maxwell.
Willie Macbirn,
Thou art a kind and honest-hearted man:
I know who supper'd on thy curds and cream
Without thy invitation. They are night
Who scorn'd thy hollow stones and rowan wands,
And, in thy cow-house, drain'd thy seven cows dry,
And 'neath the cold moon's eastern horn who coost
A spell as thou camest screaming to the world,
To mark what death thou'lt dree. Dost thou hear that?
Now shall I rid me of this babbling peasant.

(Aside.)
Sec. Shep.
I hope—oh! cannie, kind and fearful woman,
I hope ye joke. A stone of good fat cheese,
A ham whose fat will gleam to the rannel-tree,
I vow but I will send you. Death I'll dree!
My conscience! kimmer, I should like to ken.

Lady M.
Avoid the salt sea, and a bottomless boat.

Second Shepherd.
Good Lord! now, Saunders Wilson, o' Witchknowe,
D'ye hear her? I ne'er dred such things before.

Lady Maxwell.
Dread growing hemp: but dread it twisted more.

Second Shepherd.
Hemp growing and twisted! diel maun I dread that.
I have been walking now these seven long years
On a bottomless pool, on ice a sixpence thick.

Lady Maxwell.
But, chief beware—what sort of soul art thou?
Had I an errand on the wide salt sea,
Couldst thou walk on the water?

Second Shepherd.
Walk on the water!
Were I five ell of wind, or a willie-wagtail,
Then might I swim like a sheldrake on the deep:
I'll walk on 't when it's paved with solid ice,
Or when the stone is bent from bank to bank,
Or when the cunning house of crooked timber,
Which men do call a boat, floats in the foam;
But I'm no spirit, or brownie, goblin, or wraith,
Nor will-o'wisp—a deil would do 't discreetly;
I am a sinful tender of sheep, good dame—

Lady M.
Meet me at midnight, when the risen moon
Sits on yon hill. I'll teach thy leaden feet
To tread o'er curled billows. Now, begone.

Sec. Shep.
Tread on the curled billows! horrid be 't!
And amble stride-legs 'tween the foul fiend's horns!
These are sad pranks for Jenny Jink's goodman.

(Exit.)
Lady Maxwell.
Shepherd, thou seem'st to know me. I am one—
Be wise, and cease to know me; for my name
May bring thee pain and peril.

First Shepherd.
Noble lady,
I am but a poor man; yet hair of thy head
I'll not see harm'd: some fearful woe, some grief
Fit to make dull eyes weep, hath turn'd thee thus.
O! there are awful changes in this world!
But I ask nought; and I can be as mute
As that grey stone; and I can draw too, lady,
For thy sake, a sharp sword. Here comes the dame,
Even reverend Mabel. Heaven be thy shield.

(Exeunt.)