University of Virginia Library

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.)