University of Virginia Library

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.)