University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Cumlongan Castle.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
Mary Douglas.
Bring me my page's mantle and plumed bonnet,
My little dagger with the golden hilt;
A breath of time is all that sunders me
From a life-time of dishonour.

May Morison.
In the name
Of Meg Macnay, who shaped the winding sheet
Of her first husband and her second's shirt
At once from the same web, what hastes us now?
(Sings.)
(Exit.)

Mary D.
A strange bold courage buoys my spirit up:
Yestreen I dream'd my father's spirit stood
One foot on Solway, and one foot on shore;
And still kept waving seaward. I'll not stay
And yield my fame up with a shriek, like dames
Who dread to soil their slippers.

May Morison enters singing.
May Morison.
(Dresses her.)
Eh! help me, madam, you 've a martial look;
The bonnet fits you rarely—the sword, too,
Doth seem as natural, bless me, to your hand,
As the leaf is to the tree.

Mary Douglas.
What is the hour?

May Morison.
The hour young witches walk in, and work pranks
With the wits of wisest men—'tis short of twelve.
(Sings.)

Mary Douglas.
Farewell! thou hast been faithful; so take this,
And take this too—we'll meet in better times.

May M.
Lord! I'm not shod in shoes of lead—I'll go
And see this young sweet gentleman—his boat
Mayhap may carry double.

Mary Douglas.
Of whom speakest thou?
I know no one—I go far off, I care not
With whom I meet. In this wide world but one
Breathes, who would wrong my wretchedness.

May Morison.
I speak
Of him—even he himself—him you aye dream of.
Lord, lady, how you crimson. The proud youth
Who writes you such rare ballads—Redder yet?
And sings them in your ear—Sir Marmaduke,
He who waits for you in the greenwood now.

Mary D.
Make mirth with other subjects—but on this
Hold thy unkind and most ungentle tongue;
He is where the blessed be.

May Morison.
Lord! Lord! my lady,
My grey eyes are not marble. I can tell
A flesh and blood youth from a saint of heaven:
Why he stood here five minutes since as pale
As one come from the grave. He saw you; heard you
Wooe his grey-headed kinsman: he wax'd pale;
Wax'd paler still, and paler, and his eyes
Shot from them positive fire.

Mary Douglas.
Look in my face;
I am no baby, whom a sugar'd tale—
As you dread heaven, say, did you see him? now
Look me firm in the face.

May Morison.
Lord! here's the piece
Of good red gold he gave me—it's no vision;
'Twill buy me a green kirtle, and a snood:
He gave me a kiss, too, well worth twice as much;
I feel 't yet on my lips—a kiss far kinder
Than e'er Jock Tamson gave me. See him, lady!
My sooth I saw him, and I'll warrant him
Worth all the saints o' the calendar, and sweeter
To thee than fifty visions.

Mary Douglas.
He is living!—
So take my bent knees, heaven. O! my love,
My tried, my faithful, and my gallant love;
I'll follow thee o'er the world—And he was here
'Scaped from extremest peril—pale did you say?
I'll seek, I'll find him, and sink into his arms.
Come, wilt thou go with me?

May Morison.
Look, lady, look;
The night is monstrous mirk, and the grass damp:
Cumlongan greenwood is no gracious place,
And I've a new snood I would gladly sew,
And I've a kind lad I must meet to-night.

Mary Douglas.
They have the noblest guide who have but God;
I give me to his guidance: so, farewell.

(Exeunt.)