 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
“THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH.”
No whit is gained, do you say to me,
In a hundred years, nor in two nor three,
In wise things, nor in holy—
No whit since Bacon trod his ways,
And William Shakespeare wrote his plays!
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly.
In a hundred years, nor in two nor three,
In wise things, nor in holy—
No whit since Bacon trod his ways,
And William Shakespeare wrote his plays!
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly.
But here is a lesson, man, to heed;
I have marked the pages, open and read;
We are yet enough unloving,
Given to evil and prone to fall,
But the record will show you, after all,
That still the world keeps moving.
I have marked the pages, open and read;
We are yet enough unloving,
Given to evil and prone to fall,
But the record will show you, after all,
That still the world keeps moving.
All in the times of the good King James—
I have marked the deeds and their doers' names.
And over my pencil drawing—
One Geillis Duncan standeth the first
For helping of “anie kinde sick” accursed,
And doomed, without trial, to “thrawing.”
I have marked the deeds and their doers' names.
And over my pencil drawing—
One Geillis Duncan standeth the first
For helping of “anie kinde sick” accursed,
And doomed, without trial, to “thrawing.”
Read of her torturers given their scope
Of wrenching and binding her head with a rope,
Of taunting her word and her honor,
And of searching her body sae pure and fair
From the lady-white feet to the gouden hair
For the wizard's mark upon her!
Of wrenching and binding her head with a rope,
Of taunting her word and her honor,
And of searching her body sae pure and fair
From the lady-white feet to the gouden hair
For the wizard's mark upon her!
Of how through fair coaxings and agonies' dread
She came to acknowledge whatever they said,
And, lastly, her shaken wits losing,
To prattle from nonsense and blasphemies wild
To the silly entreaties and tears of a child,
And then to the fatal accusing.
She came to acknowledge whatever they said,
And, lastly, her shaken wits losing,
To prattle from nonsense and blasphemies wild
To the silly entreaties and tears of a child,
And then to the fatal accusing.
First naming Euphemia Macalzean,
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a queen;
Then Agnes, whose wisdom surpassed her;
“Grace Wyff of Keith,” so her sentence lies,
“Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes
Of the King, her royal master.”
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a queen;
Then Agnes, whose wisdom surpassed her;
“Grace Wyff of Keith,” so her sentence lies,
“Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes
Of the King, her royal master.”
Oh, think of this Grace wife, fine and tall,
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall!
Her peril and pain enhancing
With owning the lie that on Hallowmas Eve
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve
To Berwick Church, for a dancing!
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall!
Her peril and pain enhancing
With owning the lie that on Hallowmas Eve
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve
To Berwick Church, for a dancing!
Think of her owning, through brain-sick fright
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that night,
And of Majesty sending speady
Across the border and far away
For that same Geillis to dance and play,
Of infernal news made greedy!
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that night,
And of Majesty sending speady
Across the border and far away
For that same Geillis to dance and play,
Of infernal news made greedy!
Think of her true tongue made to tell
How she had raised a dog from a well
To conjure a Lady's daughters:
And how she had gript him neck and skin.
And, growling, thrust him down and in
To his hiding under the waters!
How she had raised a dog from a well
To conjure a Lady's daughters:
And how she had gript him neck and skin.
And, growling, thrust him down and in
To his hiding under the waters!
How Rob the Rower, so stout and brave,
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave,
And how, with enchantments arming,
Husbands false she had put in chains,
And gone to the beds of women in pains
And brought them through by charming!
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave,
And how, with enchantments arming,
Husbands false she had put in chains,
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And brought them through by charming!
Think of her owning that out at sea
The Devil had marked her on the knee,
And think of the prelates round her
Twitching backward their old gray hairs
And bowing themselves to their awful prayers
Before they took her and bound her!
The Devil had marked her on the knee,
And think of the prelates round her
Twitching backward their old gray hairs
And bowing themselves to their awful prayers
Before they took her and bound her!
The world moves! Witch-fires, say what you will
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill
By the breath of a crazy story;
Nor are men riven at horses' tails,
Or done to death through pincered nails,
In the name of God and his glory.
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill
By the breath of a crazy story;
Nor are men riven at horses' tails,
Or done to death through pincered nails,
In the name of God and his glory.
The world moves on! Say what you can,
No more may a maiden's love for a man,
Into scorn and hatred turning,
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark,
And roll him along like a log in its bark
To the place of fiery burning.
No more may a maiden's love for a man,
Into scorn and hatred turning,
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark,
And roll him along like a log in its bark
To the place of fiery burning.
And such like things were done in the days
When one Will Shakespeare wrote his plays;
And when Bacon thought, for a wonder:
And when Luther had hurled, at the spirit's call,
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all
At the head of the Papal thunder.
When one Will Shakespeare wrote his plays;
And when Bacon thought, for a wonder:
And when Luther had hurled, at the spirit's call,
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all
At the head of the Papal thunder.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |