University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Sir John Cuming's Castle in Badenoch.
Sir John Cuming, Lady Marjory Cuming.
SIR JOHN CUMING.
Edward is coming, dear; he's on his way,
With Anthony de Bek, and all his lords,
And the pick'd wits of learning-larded France,
With all their garniture of wigs and gowns,
Strutting with law and with theology:
Northumberland is groaning 'neath the weight
Of learned bellies lumbering toward the North;
Tyne mutters to the Tweed the coming troop,
And Tweed shrinks in, and sweats with apprehension
At being drunk up by their multitude.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
I trow, the river needs not be alarm'd;
The learned drink no water in their wine.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Tut, tut, they're primed and charged to the mouth,
Like culverins, all ready to fire out
The world-amazing crack of their decision;
We'll hear it here at Badenoch; 'twill blow
Down to the dust our steeple-lofty hopes:
They're coming, lady, to suppress the Cuming.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
What! may King Donald Bane's great name avail not?
Shall English royalty and Gallic law
Trample on his terrific memory?

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Ay, good King Donald, with his daughter Bethok,
And Hexild, and the rest—I mickle dread,
Kick'd from all hopes, their grandchildren may pack
To live on limpets on poor Barra's rock,
As did their great dethroned progenitor:
Why—we're all shoulder'd out of sov'reignty
By this strange shoal of raw-born candidates.
King Ned had undertaken to reduce
The number two to one, but in that stead
He has, like Cadmus, sown the serpent's teeth,
And up the golden-helmed bloody crop
Of brethren rise, with faces grim as hell,
Mad to be murder'd all, and flourishing
Their fratricidal crackling arms on high,
To hew each other down into the dust,
That spawn'd their reg'ment but a trice before.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
What spick-and-span fresh claimants are a-field?

SIR JOHN CUMING.
A dainty round half-dozen at the least;—
There's Florence, Earl of Holland, who hath hoisted
Some twenty thousand trowser'd Dutch aboard
His timber-floats, that can exhibit him
On the fourth morn beside the pier of Leith:
He first and fearfullest—There's Sir John Hastings;
Sir Nicholas Foulis; Sir Roger Mandeville;
Patrick Dunbar, our kinsman Earl of March;
Sir Walter Ross; and to befringe the list
With beauteous bastardy, Sir William Vessie,
Who now proclaims, as with the sound of trump,
His mother was not given to harlotry,
But litter'd him according to the canon,
In blameless blankets, most authentically:
Think'st thou that Donald Bane's sweet memory
Can thrive, or not be smother'd down to death
By such a squeeze of upstarts?

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Bad it bodes
Not for the Cuming only, but the country,
That Edward, honour'd with that reference,
Should multiply dissensions by up-swarming
A mob of such unvouched candidates.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Mass, dame, 'tis true; I ever augur'd ill
Of England's intermeddling in this cause.
What! is our country too unwise, too weak,
To settle of herself her fireside quarrels;
But she must gad abroad in discontent,
Seeking some foreign daysman to come in
With proud arbitrement, inviting him
To domineer and scowl on each pretence?
Must Europe's law and learning be scraped up
From her broad surface, to determine here
Whose is th'arm-chair at Scoon? 'Tis just as if
Goodman and wife should have a bit of bicker,
And each should pettishly gad round the town,
Beseeching honest burghers to come in
And solve the strife 'twixt smock and pantaloon.
Hark ye, good Marjory, the Scottish States
That day gave all their wisdom to the wind,
When they surrender'd to a stranger's hand
The right of nomination to their throne;
We'll hear o't with a racket by and by.
Meantime, my dame, we must be ducking down
Our heads into humility, full glad
In being of King Donald's stirp, without
His chance of kingdom or of limpet-soup.
Let Bruce and Baliol battle out the broil;
Keep we at home, and wear our happy heads
In quiet near the hearth.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Nay, but, dear,
'Tis hard to wake poor subjects, after dreaming
Of kinging it so very joyously.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Yea, but 'tis harder, after having dream'd
Of wearing paper-crowns, and pseudo-jewels,
And feeding indigestibly on peacocks,
To wake on Barra's barren rock with nought
But an old blanket to protect from cold,
And only periwinkles for a breakfast:
These were King Donald's darling miseries,
All which he hugg'd, and mounted by their means
Into the chair, whereon a day or two
He monarchised it in a merry mood,
Till scoundrel Edgar pluck'd him by the nose,
And dosed him that he died.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
May God forefend
To us such doleful thronings, and dethronings!

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Ay, dame, 'tis better here, at Badenoch,
Fattening on pease, than in a dizzy court
Emaciating on peacocks, with a head
Tottering upon your shoulders, and a crown
Twice tottering on that head, neither your own,
But ready to be hewn, or hurried off
By interlopers.

LADY MARJORY CUMING.
Rest we then at ease,
Nestling in th'obscure happiness of home;
It is at least the safest.

SIR JOHN CUMING.
As 'tis wisest,
T'extort from crabbed sour necessity
Some sap of comfort.—We'll be lookers-on,—
Idle ourselves, upon the scrambling strife:
So, go to,—dame, get us a feast of pease,
And peace;—leave royal cates and cares to others:
Go to—go to—let us be merry, Marjory!