University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—Palace in Edinburgh.
Baliol, Abernethy, Donagill.
BALIOL.
Alas, my country, my dishonour'd crown!

DONAGILL.
O, be not quell'd, my lord, so easily;
Wind up your spirit to the Lion's pitch,
And set and keep it there heroically,
Till your insulting foe be counter-wrought
And backward spurn'd with shame into his land.
'Tis but a phantom this your degradation;
Let England's heralds, with their every trump,
Cry from your frontiers up unto the moon,
That you are but a fall'n and perish'd King.
Has their breath blown the purple from your back?
Sits not the crown as moveless on your head?
Is not the sceptre firm within your grasp?
Your people's love, does it not wrap you round
More warm than ever? Fy on these delusions!
Go, head your armies as the Lion did;
As your forefathers, with unshrinking sword,
Aggressors rather than repellers, plunged
Into the bowels of the rival land,
And hew'd out for themselves a reeking vengeance;
So do you—

Enter a Messenger hastily.
MESSENGER.
Fly, my liege! Edward has come
And handsell'd us with bloody butchery—
Hence, ere his sword o'ertake you.

BALIOL.
What has chanced
So horrible, and wild of character,
T'excuse such dreadful words?

MESSENGER.
Berwick is fall'n,
Destroy'd, dispeopled, drown'd in blood!

BALIOL.
Alas!
A fearful fell beginning.

MESSENGER.
O, my lord,
Heap, heap the dust upon thine honour'd head;
Exchange thy purple for the grave's sad crapes;
Weep for your murder'd subjects!

ABERNETHY.
Vengeance first,
Come Lamentation after; tell it all
Ere we cry Woe; and blench not to reveal
Its every terriblest particular,
That our excited and word-wounded ears
May kindle up our ireful hearts the hotter;
My hand is on my sword.

MESSENGER.
The men of Fife,
That had arrived to garrison the town,
Gallantly stood upon the environ'd walls,
Annoying with the tempest of their bows
The faces of th'assailants, that full oft
To rid them of that arrowy chastisement,
They turn'd in trepidation their mail'd backs
Towards the barbed shower; and, oftentimes,
Excursive from the gates in sudden sally,
The Scottish spearmen dash'd the English ranks
Into disaster, garnishing the field
With all the ghastly-glorious wreck of Mars—
Steeds, men, and arms, and banners of St George.
At last King Edward, desp'rate of success
From manly brunt of war, betook himself
To sneaking shifts of Grecian stratagem:
A day or two he to the hills retired,
Feigning departure; on the fourth, at dawn,
He re-appear'd with well-dissembled shields,
And counterfeited blazonry of banners,
As if a Scottish troop were from the hills
A-coming to relieve the straiten'd place:
Whereat the men upon the walls deceived,
Open joyously their gates; and in a stream
Let in their false-faced foes, that Sinon-like
Came cringingly, dissembling to destroy.
Too soon 'twas found that that admitted troop
Bore no fraternal greetings: In a moment,
Greetings of blood were given; a thousand swords
Burn'd from their sheaths, and in unguarded breasts
Housed their life-searching points.

ABERNETHY.
What, no death
Dealt back in recompence? Stood England whole,
Unscath'd with mortal detriment? O, tell me,
My squires of Fife gave wrathful retribution,
And I will hear in patience.

MESSENGER.
They were ta'en
At unawares; unarm'd from house and fort,
Forth had they rush'd as for a friendly meeting.
Their plated coats had not been buckled on;
Their swords were left behind them in their chambers;
They were beset with perils ere they list;
They fell an easy conquest: Ne'ertheless,
Despair to some gave arms and hardiment,
That in the threshold even of victory,
England did reel and stagger for a space.
At last her numbers and advantages
O'erbore unaided valour; like a flood
She swept the total city with destruction,
Encumbering all her vacancies with dead.
Houses were ransack'd to their topmost garrets,
For pastime to the sword; age-wither'd men
And bed-rid women from their pallets dragg'd,
Perish'd upon their hearths; th'inviolate cradle
To the poor sleeping babe was not a sanctuary;
Temples were cramm'd with murder'd worshippers,
Who died with blessed Jesu on their lips;
Jesu preserve us! cried they piteously.
Slay on, slay on! cried homicidal Edward.

DONAGILL.
O mercy!

BALIOL.
O my country! O the blood
Charged, charged to me most miserable!

ABERNETHY.
Fy!
Leave whimp'ring to our grandames; seas of tears
Redeem no lives; arms, arms redeem lost fame;
Go, let us study vengeance.

MESSENGER.
I did leave him
Throned on his mountain of slain innocents,
Exulting in the vast Aceldama
Created by his voice—

Enter a Second Messenger.
MESSENGER.
—Fly, fly, my lord;
Edward is at our heels with fire and sword;
'Tis time to hurry upward to the hills,
And interpose between you and his wrath,
Mountains, and friths, and rivers!

BALIOL.
More disaster?
Was not the first enough, that thus a second
Comes backing it with quick succession so?
O utter all at once, and press me down
With large accumulation of despair!
I am prepared for falling.

SECOND MESSENGER.
May my Lord
Excuse my tongue for what it now must utter
Of tidings irksome, yet inevitable;
Even were I mute, the overloaded air,
Charged with the heavy groans of dying men,
And cries of panic-stricken fugitives,
And shoutings of blood-thirsty foes in chase,
Would overtake us with her clam'rous echo,
And of herself, without a mouth, report
The terrible disasters of the time.
Edward is near, my Lord! His steed I mark'd
On Musselburgh Bridge; I saw him there
Dismount, and in the pure white-sanded stream
Wash his blood-bolter'd boots and hands, that dripp'd
Horrible drops, whereby the tainted stream
Ran from the place all ruddy to the sea.
I saw him range his host upon the bank,
Giving them merciless instructions; and
Ere the dim wings of twilight shade the world,
He will be at the gates of Canongate,
Demanding entrance, that he may to-morrow
Triumphantly ascend the Castle-Hill,
And in St Giles's rear his hands to heaven,
To thank the God of peace for victory.

BALIOL.
O heaven, so soon!

DONAGILL.
Alas, for us and Scotland!

ABERNETHY.
What, at our gates so quick?—Has the Earl of Ross,
To whom that middle tract was given in charge,
Been loit'ring round Dunbar?—Sir Patrick Graham,
With his good trusty troop of chosen squires,—
Has sloth and rust suppress'd their idle swords,
That thus the foe comes knocking at our doors
So unexpected?—Tell us aught of them,
If thou hast learn'd?

SECOND MESSENGER.
I saw the bloody heads
Of Graham, and twenty of his trusty squires,
Prick'd upon pikes, and carried scornfully
Before the vanguard of the conqueror,
Announcing to poor Scotland, in their mute
And miserable ghastliness, what doom
Hangs o'er her heroes.

BALIOL.
To the north, O mother!—
Dangers rush in and thicken.—To the north,
For shelter and for life!

ABERNETHY.
Abide we here;
This crag is stronger than the house of Badenoch;
Here have we rocks, and bolts, and barricadoes;
Only let hearts suffice and do their duty,
Here may we in defiance teaze the foe
With our prolong'd existence.

DONAGILL.
Alas! we have not
Or friends, or fit provision to stand out
Th'incensed leaguer of our adversaries.
The north will find us readier defence;
Hence then—

Enter Sir John Cuming, hastily.
SIR JOHN CUMING.
Away, away, my gracious liege!
What, stand you here a-piddling about trifles,
When life and death hang balancing upon
The loss or the advantage of a minute?
Look from your eastern window, and behold
Yon hither-coming pyramid of dust,
Excited towards heaven by English hoofs,
Warning you hence, if you have wish to 'scape
A cruel death, or vile captivity.
Already Horror has possess'd the city;
Confusion is abroad; men's faces are
I'll-omen'd, and in gloominess forbode
An universal black calamity
About to fall; cries in the streets are heard,
The King! the King!

BALIOL.
Their King? Can he avail them?
Alas! a poor unprofitable name!—
Utter not that sad syllable to me!—
Perish'd be royalty;—let us but look
For safety—'tis high time—Oh whither—

SIR JOHN CUMING.
Out
At the west gate; I have a faithful troop
Appointed to receive your highness there;—
Moments are now momentous—come,—away—
For Death is in the wind.

[Exeunt King, Donagill, and Cuming.
ABERNETHY.
I hear him sawing
The thin air with his scythe; we must off too;—
A curse light on the jade Necessity,
That forces even the valiant to retreat.

[Exit.