University of Virginia Library

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.