A DRAMATIC POEM, BALLADS, AND LYRICS. C. Baldwin, Printer, New Bridge-street, London. , f SIR MARMADUKE friends of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. LORD WALTER MAXWELL, of Caerlaverock. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL, his son. HALBERT COMYNE, cousin to Lord Maxwell. SIR JOHN GOURLAY, -^ HUBERT DOUGAN, EDWARD NEAL, JOHN DINGWALL, CLAUD HOGAN, SIMON GRAEME, MARK MACGEE, AULD PENPONT. Captains, Royalists, Soldiers, Shepherds, Mariners, and Servants. LADY MAXWELL. MARY DOUGLAS, of Cumlongan. MAY MORISON, her maid. MABEL MORAN. Maidens. Spirits. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. ACT I. SCENE I. Solway Shore. Night. Spirits unseen. SEA SPIRIT. Hail, Spirit ; cease thy pastime hillock high Thy multitude of waters, till the foam Hang in the hollow heaven. I scent the course Of a dread mortal, whom ten thousand fiends Herald to deeds of darkness. RIVER SPIRIT. Come, my streams Of fairy Nith, of hermit Clouden clear, And moorland Annan come too, gentle Ae And meet the Solway ; and be loosed, ye winds Which mock the proudest cedars into dust Come, mar his sinful course. SEA SPIRIT. Lo ! now he comes ; 6 SIR M ARM ADUKE MAXWELL. Actl. I see him shoot through green Arbigland bay ; The smiling sea-waves sing around his prow, Wooed by the melody, flung sweet and far, From merry flute and cymbal. Lo .' he comes \ Say, shall he go unchasten'd through our floods ? RIVER SPIRIT. His helmet plume shall drink my mirkest surge. I have no lack of waters, such as smack Of the world's corruption. I have secret floods, Embrown'd with cut-throats' dust ; waves tumbling red With the gore of one whose hands were never wash'd From the blood of strangled babes. SEA SPIRIT. Of every crime That cries from earth to heaven, 1 have a stain ; So rise, ye surges. Are ye slow to rise Against the homeward sea-boy, when he sees Lights in his mother's dwelling by the foot Of lonely CrifFel ? Rise, ye surges, rise ! Leap from your oozy bottom, where the bones Of murderers fester from the deepest den, Where he who perish'd, plotting murder, lies ; Come from the creek where, when the sun goes down, The haunted vessel sends her phantom troops Of fiery, apparitions. Come, as I call ; And come, too, heaven's wild wind. Pour the deep sea Prone on yon ship that bears five unbless'd mortal*-^- Spirit, let us work. Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 7 SCENE II. Entrance of the Solway. A Ship with HALBERT COMYNE, DOUGAN, NEAL, HOGAN, DINGWALL and MARINERS. FIRST MARINER. The wind sleeps like a porpoise, and the sea Lies smooth as glass so wake, my gentle wind ; Come, breathing from the green and dewy west ; Awake, my ancient and most pleasant friend ; Thou God o' the mariners, come and swell my sail Come blow, my bonnie breeze come furrow deep That marble sea, so motionless and mute. Lo ! see my mainsail's glew'd i' the air the down Stirs not, now parted from the cormorant's wing Awake plague on thee for a slumbering servant, That wakes not when I want thee I have seen Thee toss me on thy high and hollow wave, The chafed brine leaping through my starting seams, While I cried, hooly ! and fleech'd down thy mood As a mother soothes a baby. Wake now, wake. SECOND MARINER. Hush now he wakens tyrannous and strong Lo ! even now the sea begins to shake, The blast comes sweeping with an angry gust, The caverns moan O man, but ye spake rudely. THIRD MARINER. Come, trim the mainsail of our gallant ship 8 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1, Now through the sea-brine she goes starting ; see, How graceful is her shadow on the flood, Milk-white her canvas is, and streamer'd gay; And lovely is she, as a bride, when bright The bridegroom's gold glows on her finger, while The torches lead her bedward. FIRST MARINER sings. l. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 2. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free The world of waters is our home, . And merry men are we. 3. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 9 SECOND MARINER. Hush hush plague choke that cavern of a throat, That roars like the troughs of Tongeland Look i' the lee, The ocean furrows her dark waters down The cloudy heaven drops in a sevenfold gloom, And all the lights of Man's green isle are quench'd, The candles gleaming through the chamber glass Of Maryport's buxom daughters. Hark, my mates, That running sound along the cavern'd shore Of old Kirkcudbright see the stormy cap On merry Criffel, and the sullen hood On stately Skiddaw. Mariners, no more Put trust in nine-inch cable, if we lack Lap-fulls of storm for this. It's yarely, yare, My merry mates pluck in our canvas wings, Else they will have a pulling. THIRD MARINER. As a river, Plump comes the spouting rain pours black as pitch From out yon cauldron of a cloud ; the sea Turns up its sablest curls, and starts, and leaps Aneath the tempest, like a stirr'd up steed. Softly, my lovely Nancy, my sweet ship Breast these rough billows softly, else thy keel Will rot perchance in a quicksand. DOUGAN. What wild shore Is this, now stretching dark along our lee? FIRST MARINER. A shore where many a sailor's corse lies stretch'd, At no expense of linen Here, boys, here 10 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. The salt brine spouts atween her planks lo, now The fire runs through our mainsail crashing goes The gallant mast which my good hatchet shaped ; This comes of scoffing the wanton wind hilloah ! There stands Barnhourie rock, all white in foam Thank heaven, we've pass'd it. Ye who love to sleep In brine some seven fathoms, with your heads Pillow'd on coral, or a downy quicksand, Your resting place is nigh. COMYNE. Come, pluck thy heart up ; Thou'lt die on shore yet, man, and have a grave Dug in the sunniest side of some churchyard, And be most doucely laid in the red earth, With mourning eyes hung o'er thee. What fair tower Is yon, round which the lightning flashes ? See, It rises o'er a headland rough with pines, Where the chafed water's leaping. SECOND MARINER. What have you To do with green earth's loveliness the sea Gives us enough to gaze at. Haste below, And gird thy bright sword proudly by thy side ; Set thy silk hat and feather gaily on ; Clasp the gold latchets of thy studded shoes, And fold thy bosom in thy scarlet robe ; And when the rude surge flashes on thy brow, Look at it lordly, my most gentle Sir ; Rebuke it it may heed thee, though it ne'er Cared for proud words before But leave poor men To die their own mean way. (IZxeunt.) Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 1 1 SCENE III. Solway Shore. Enter MARK MACGBE. MACGEB. Even now the moon rode bright in heaven, the stars Gleam'd numerous, and in the cold blue north The lights went starting ; nor a breath of wind Disturb'd the gentle waters. Grim as the pit, Glooms now the space between the heaven and earth ; The stars are blotted out ; and the mute surge, That wooed so sweet the pebbles on the beach, Gives its wreathed foam to dark Caerlaverock pines, And to the darkness seems, as if a tongue To speak of woe were given. (Storm thunder andjire.) Dread heaven, I bow To thy behest. Comes this storm but to fright The desert air of midnight ? or hast thou Some fearful purpose in it ? Hark ! a cry ! Storm continues Cries of distress from the sea ; and enter from the surge HALBERT COMYNE, DOUG AN, NEAL, HOGAN, and DINGWALL. COMYNE. Now, Solway, let thy rudest billows dash 12 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1, Upon the shore five fathom deep abreast. Lo ! here I am, safe on the green grass sod. DoUGAN. One foot length of this good rough ground is worth A world of waters when the wind is loosed. NEAL. This cold and cursed water chills my blood : Confound thee, ravenous ocean, thou hast drank My precious liquor up. DOUGAN. Be wise and mute ! Didst thou not hear wild voices talk i' the blast ? Didst thou not see dread sights ? see horrible shapes Shake gleaming daggers at us ? All the sails Seem'd changed to shrouds ; unt)ffin'd corses stalk'd Visibly on the deck. COMYNE. Hush, Hubert Dougan : fear, Like fancy, fashion'd forth those godless shapes ; And our eyes, so imagination will'd, Fill'd the ship with shapes terrific, and a tongue Fearful and ominous lent the sounding surge. MACGEE. Lo ! has the storm spared these ? or have the fiends Forged them i* the war of elements, and sent Their spectral progeny to fright the world With ghastly faces ? Speak ! May a poor man Call you God's mortal workmanship, or forms Sent here to stir the dead with doomsday looks ? NEAL. E'en reeking from the nethermost abyss Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 13 Of darkness, I assure you. Man, hast thou Got any drink for devils ? Spare one drop. MACGEE. 'Faith, thou mayst pass with holier men than me For a fierce whelp of Satan's rudest brood. The roughest fiend that wallows in the lake Would start at these wild features, and would yell And boggle at thy shadow. DOUGAN. Peasant, peace : Nor let the terrors of a rough rude heart Thus wrong an honest eye. MACGEE. . Has that deep sea Not raised its voice against you? But I will speak. The Solway is a gentie sea, good Sir, To men of gentle mood ; but, oh ! 'tis rough, And stern, and dark, and dangerous, to those Who cherish thoughts unjust or murderous. COMYNE. How sweet the west wind courts this clover bank, And breathes on one as with a maiden's lips. DOUGAN. My lord talks courtship to this pleasant land ; And it indeed looks lovely. Now thy helm, Dinted with sabre strokes, must be unplumed, And made a milkmaid's bowl : thy sword, so famed For cleaving steel caps as the trumpet sang, Will make a damsel's distaff: and we'll hang Our pennon, soil'd in the grim surge of war, To scare the crows from corn. W SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1L COMYNB. Hush; keep thy blad* With a good edge on't. We may yet find work Worth keeping a dirk to do. HOGAN. Now, by the print O' the blessed foot of St. Patrick, I do swear Peace is a pleasant thing : I quit acquaintance With six inches of cold steel. Now I'll go seek A special oak staff, and a good friend's head To try its merits on. Friend, were this land Nigh the green hills of Lurgan, it would have A name worth asking after. MACGEE. This land has An ancient name a proverb'd one for sweets Of every hue : here, at the brightening morn, A thousand homes all fill'd with happy ones Send up their smoke to heaven. A thousand hinds Furrow the fallow land. A thousand maids. Fresh as unripen'd roses, comb white flax, Press the warm snowy curd, or blythely turn The fragrant hay-swathe to the western wind. Here too ascends at morn, or dewy eve, The melody of psalm and saintly prayer ; Nor lack we here song of impassion'd bard, And saws of sacred sages. When thou paintest A place where angels might repose their plumes From heavenly journey ings, call itCaerlaverock, So then the world may credit what thou sayest. COMYNB. Ah, Hubert! well I know this ancient shore .; Sc.3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 15 Barefooted 'mongst its shells and pebbles, far I've chaced the lapwing. Fast too have I flown, Nor fear'd the quicksand quivering 'neath my foot, To match the rushing pellock with my speed : No stone uplifts its mossy crown but brings Of me some story with it ; every hawthorn Has got a tale to tell ; and that pine grove Could gossip things would glad the envious ear Of wrinkled dames demure. Now twenty summers Of burning suns, 'mid warfare's rough caress, Have brown'd my temples since that soft breeze blew That belly'd my parting sail. NEAL. Look here, my lord ; Lo ! here I stand, all dripping wet, and drench'd In this same land of loveliness, and shed The sea brine from me, like a tree on which Rain has been newly shower'd. DOUGAN. Now, peasant, say, Is there some rushy cot, or cavern, near Some hermitage, or vaulted castle old, To whose hoar sides flame would strange lustre lend. And save us from being frozen 'neath the moon To winter icicles. MACGEE. Yes, gentle Sir ! I know an old house but it lacks the roof ; I know a cavern but its mouth is shut By an earthquake-loosen'd stone ; a castle's near, With vaults and arches vast, and grated walls 1C SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. But this rude river, by a sudden rush, Has given a current to its marble floor Where thou may'st float a barge. I know a cot^ A trim and neat one, with a fire that gilds The polish'd roof-tree ; flagons too are there, With precious aquavitae : that cot is mine : But, by yon moon, I see no aspect here That's made to grace an honest man's abode. To him who sent you, I commend you ; a grim one ; Even him who hides his cloven foot i' the storm. (Exeunt.) SCENE IV. Caerlaverock Wood. Enter H ALBERT COMYNB, DOUG AN, NBAL, HOGAN, and DINGWALL. DOUG AN. This seems some tower o' the fancy its foundation Flits 'fore us like a shadow. Enter MABEL MORAN. NEAL. Who comes here ? A rude gray beldame come in cantraip time To mount her ragwort chariot, and to quaff Good wine with the pole star ? DINGWALL. Now, my hoary dame, I do beseech thee, keep thy foot on the sod ; Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 17 There's forms to night i' the air, raging unloosed From the flaming glen thou wot'st of, who might jolt Thee from thine airy saddle, and would singe Thy pike staff to a cinder. MABEL. Reaver Rob ! The wind that blaws thee here's from a black airt ; Among my hen-roosts, thy two hands are worse Than the teeth of twenty foumarts. Saul to gude ! His presence too be near us ! Who art thou ? COMYNE. My good and reverend dame, we hapless ones Have come from a far nook of foreign earth No midnight reavers we, but men whose swords Were bared in God's high quarrel ; we have felt Rough weather on the deep, and seek i' the gloom Lord Walter Maxwell's mansion. Wouldst thou trust Thy foot i' the dew to show the path that winds, Through planting, park, and woodland, to the gate Of thy lord's dwelling ; I'll requite each drop That gems thy hair, with a fair piece of silver. (Offers money,) MABEL. Put up your gold, man for the dark deep sea's Too dread a place wherein to gather gold, To scatter it in moonlight. So ye swam For your sweet lives ? And, by my sooth, that's true ; Ye're dripping like the wing o' the water hen. The Solway is a sinful flood, sweet Sir ; 18 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. On many a fair face has it feasted : it Has muckle dool to answer for. DOUG AN. I've heard In foreign lands men call 't the bloody water. Is yon Lord Maxwell's castle, 'mongst the groves On which the moon is gleaming ? MABKL. Three lang miles, Weary and dark, through mire, and moss, and wood, Have you to wend, and find no bigged wall Save this poor sheal. But in the Solway flow Ye'd better be to the neck, with Will-o'-the-wisp Shining aside you, than at my hearth stone Sit till the morning. Ye'll have heard from the Turks How Mabel's house is haunted. There came once A gifted man a soul's well wisher one Whom men call'd Shadrach Peden. In he came, With " Peace be here ; " and, " Dame, thou'rt sore beset With sprites of the sinful and permitted fiends." " Aye, well I wot that's true," quoth I. He drew A circle and a cross, and syne began Stark controversy for a stricken hour. But, Sirs, the fiends wax'd strong and fearful, and The saint grew faint and frail. " Mabel," quoth he, " There's no perfection in flesh." DOUG AN. Truce, holy dame : Lift thy door latch, and let us have one hour Of fellowship with thy fiends feel the warm glow So ruddy at thy window I dread more Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 19 Pit-falls and darkness, than the pranks of spirits. I'd liefer sleep with the arch fiend at mine elbow, Than grope my way through moss, and mire, and flood. HoGAN. I've had enough of dismal forms and faces ; For cursed shapes paced on the splintering deck ; And 'tween Arbigland and Caerlaverock bay, Each wave seem'd rife with moans of dying men ; My sword caught drops of reeking blood upon it ; My hands smelt horribly warm with murder's work ; And I'll brave hell no more. DINGWALL. Faith, I'm not one To sit and sigh out prayers, and mournful psalms, Aside this beldame's hearth, with a charm'd ring Of wiseman's chalk to bound me from the fiends. NEAL. Witch, hast thou got one cup of barley dew ? Or most unrighteous brandy? or one drop Of meek and saintly sack ? That cursed sea Has turn'd my weazon to a thoroughfare For its unblessed water. MABEL. What sayest thou To a cup o' the rarest juice of bloomed ragwort ? Or bonnie hollow hemlock, stark and brown ? NEAL. Carlin ! cursed carlin ! keep such drink to cheer Thy Hallovvmass gossips. DOUG AN. Now, my sage good dame, c2 20 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. We leave thy gleaming hearth to trooping spectres ; We love not to carouse with such companions, Nor to shake hands with visionary fingers. So this is the way, thou sayest? MABEL. Yes, gentle Sir. Now look on yon bright star, and mark my words. The tryster tree pass, where the pedlar lad Got his neck broke, and by the yellow hair Was hung among the branches. Then pass too The dead man's loup, where our town tailor drown'd Himself, for fair Peg Primrose. Pass the moss, The bogle-moss, still haunted by the ghost Of poor Tarn Watson ane whom I kenn'd weel : He wooed the gypsy's daughter, and forgot Caerlaverock had fair faces. He was found One summer morning ; but the cauld sharp airn Had cross'd his weazon, and his ghost aye goes With its right hand at its throat. Pass that, and syne Ye'll see a belted huntsman cut in stone, A bugle at his belt, which ye maun blow, If ye would have swift tidings. I have said My say, and so God prosper good intents. (Exeunt Halbert Corny ne, fyc.) MABEL MORAN, alone. Thank heaven and hamely wit for this good riddance ! Now woe unto me, had I raised the latch Of my warm shealincr to such unbless'd loons, 4 Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 21 They'd ta'en my gold, and made a ghost of me. God ward Lord Maxwell, and his bonnie lady ; I'll through the wood, and warn them. Good red O * gold, And decent folk, will soon grow scarce, if knaves Like these may carry swords. (Exit.) SCENE V. Caerlaverock Wood. Night. Enter SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. SIR MARMADUKE. Thou fair tall tree, may the sharp axe ne'er smite Thy shapely stem ; may birds of sweetest song Among thy branches build : here first I met My gentle love. Lo ! now she comes. How ble&x The greensward is that carpets her white foot. Bless thee, fair lingerer, I have number'd nigh The crowded stars that stud yon western heaven. Enter MARY DOUGLAS. MARY DOUGLAS. Say, am I come to hear some curious tale Of fairy raid and revel, quaintly mix'd With antique tales of love ? Come, thou wilt tell me Some soft and gentle story : thou wilt lay Thy cheek to mine, and whisper thus, lest stars Should hear thee, and turn tell-tales. Have I guess'dl 22 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. SIR MARMADUKE. I've got a quaint and curious tale to tell, Of one who loved a maid dear as the hope Of heaven to human soul ; but heaven smiled not Upon their loves : there came a parting hour ; And with that hour came bitter dread, lest they Should meet no more again. MARY DOUGLAS. Thine eyes are grave. Has some new woe come o'er them as a cloud ? Tell me what moves thee ; lest I rashly deem Some blessed star my rival, and go forth And rail against its radiance. SIR MARMADUKE. My true love, The ancient glory has gone from our house ; And we like beadsmen sit and quote sage saws, While weeds have grown, and topp'd the noble cedars. The clouted shoe has kick'd the golden round From the bright brow of majesty ; the axe Supplants the sceptre ; and the awful law Devours, as an unheeded fire, even those It was but meant to warm. Some noble spirits Are ripe for loyal deeds so farewell, love ; Thou'lt make for me a garland or a shroud. MARY DOUGLAS. Is this the close then of the truest love ? It was too tender and too kind to last Alas ! I dream'd not of ungentle war : It is a fearful thing war, where the odds Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 23 Will make gods of the winners, is a game That charms the noble, but makes poor maids' eyes Moist with perpetual tears. Go, my love, go Yet all my thoughts were still on gentle themes ; On twilight walks aside the shaded brooks ; Of songs by moonlight on the castle top ; Of merry-makings when the corn was ripe ; Of building sunny homes for hoary men ; And thou wert ever there with thy grave smile : But thou wilt find some higher love, when fame Has deck'd thy helmet, and the laughing eyes Of noble dames are on thee. SIR MARMADUKE. I shall be True as these stars are to the cold clear sky ; True as that streamlet to its pebbly bed ; True as green Criffel to her stance ; and true As birds to song in summer. Smile, my love, For I may yet return 'mid many a shout And song of welcome. MARY DOUGLAS. I'll go with thee, love 'Tis sweet, even in hot battle, to be by The side of one we love to hear his voice, Big as the martial trumpet, call " come on;" To see his raised arm wither strong men's strength Into the might of babes see 'neath his steed The helms of chieftains lie, and his course be Where steeds soon lack their riders. 24 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1, SIR MARMADUKB. No I swear By one sweet kiss of thy pure, eloquent lips, Thou must not go, but sit upon thy tower : And, like a lily, look toward the west. Lo ! who come here ? all men of martial mien : Nay, tarry, love ; no harm can happen thee. Enter HALBERT COMYNE, DOUGAN, fyc. DOUG AN. Now gentlest greeting to thee, gentle youth : Lo ! we are strangers, whom the stormy sea Has cast upon your coast. In this land lives The good Lord Maxwell we would gladly be The good lord's guests to-night. SIR MARMADUKE. Well are we met And I will gladly guide you to his hall, Where you'll find welcome large, and princely cheer. COMYNE. What lovely woodland maiden's this she stands With her dark eyes so downcast. Have I lived So many summer suns 'mongst beauteous dames, To fall in love by moonlight ? Gentle one, Comest thou to gem thy curling locks with dew, Or comest thou forth the homeward hind to charm ? He ceases song, and, gazing on thee, says, " Do angels visit here ? " Long have I sought For beaming eyes, and glowing lips like thine, Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 25 That seem so ripe for pressing. Let me try. MARY DOUGLAS. I'm a poor dweller in this woodland, Sir, And all uncustom'd to such fair free words, And more to such frank action. SIR MARMADUKE. Sir! free Sir; They who seek fruit on a forbidden tree May break their neck i' the climbing. COMYNE. This a churl ? This is no peasant trimm'd for the tryste hour. ( Asi de.) Now pardon, fair one and for thee, proud youth, If my free speech had an ungentle sound, Forget it for the sake of those dark eyes That made a soldier err. DOUG AN. Away a vaunt Thou painted mischief for such sweet and trim And rose and lily limmers, the bright swords Of soldiers blush for such a one as thee I've seen sworn brothers ruby their sharp blades, While the fair she-fiend plaited her long locks, And smiled, and smiled. Come on now, gentle youth ; Come, grace us with thy guidance. (Exeunt Dougan,fyc.) HALBERT COMYNE, alone. COMYNE. This is a lady I should love alone Aneath the summer moon some such sweet time May yet o'ertake me ; I'm not one that wooes 26 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. With harp in hand, atid ballad on my tongue, 'Neath winter casements nor love much to measure Dark moors at midnight, nor cross drowning streams On ice an inch thick, for a cold maid's smile : No damsel doats on these romantic youths ; All their talk is o' the perilous attempt Of dizzy casements then they sit and tell What shooting stars they saw 'how the pale moon Caught one large star between her crooked horns, And they stood marvelling for a stricken hour j . How many moor flames burn'd upon the hills ; How frequent o'er their heads the night bird sang : How many times their shadow seem'd a goblin, And set their hair on end. Then they sigh deep, And ask what time o' the night 'tis, and pray heaven May warm the morning dew. (Exit.) SCENE VI. Caerlaverock Castle. Enter MARK. MACGEE, PENPONT, and SERVANTS. PENPONT. Say'st thou, I love red wine better than water? A rosy lass in hawslock gray, before A hoary dame in satin and soft silk ? Thou skilful man in tarry fleeces rot Murrain leaping-illness, and red-water ; Comrade to Tweed, to Yarrow, Ringwood, Whitefoot ; Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 27 What canst thou say against the pastime sweet Of lasses' lips. Thou supperer on sorrow, And diner on mortification Scatterer O' the bleeding members torn from scripture parable, What sayest thou to wine, and maidens' lips ? MACGEE. Now I must measure this fool-man his corn With his own bushel (aside) I have much to say : Thou turn'st thy back on the milk and honey vale, For the flesh-pots o' the heathen. Thou dost sleep Where Satan spreads thy pillow ; thy salvation Is in the larder and the vintage press, And thy redemption in warm drink. Fear not ; The day will come when thou shalt have hot drink, Hotter than lips can cool't ; companions too, Grim ones ; rosie dames thou'lt lack not, nor The fauns with cloven heel. There thou'lt carouse With the plump and willing lady, who doth sit O' the top of the seven hills. PENPONT. Thou gifted lecturer On the discipline of flesh, far hast thou chased Mirth from the land ; the twang of a harp-string Has not been heard, since holy Ramoth Gilead Lift up his voice against the burning shame Of satin slippers, and the soot-black sin Of silken snoods. Now Mark, the wiseman, what Sayest thou to this ? MACGEE. Aye, aye ! thou lovest the pride 28 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1, And vanity of flesh, and proud apparel, Perfumed locks, bared bosoms, and the hour For climbing to maids' casements, chambering, And wantonness. All have not mired them so In the lusts of life. Aye, aye ! I mind her well ; Jane Proudfoot was her name ; proud by the name Indeed was she, and proud by nature, and Own'd a rich voice that made a psalm note sound Sweet as a sinful song. Aye, sore she tried To catch me in the meshes of the flesh : 'Twas at a Quarrelwood-preaching, many a glance Threw she on me ; shook all her fine apparel ; Like a proud steed rein'd up both neck and eye ; Spread forth her painted plumage, and swam past With her beauty and her bravery. I sigh'd, And read my Bible. PENPONT. Seest thou this pikestaff? Some thirty years ago it grew i' the wood, A braw brown hazel, and has borne my weight Since then to kirk and market I would dibble it Deep in the earth, and water it, with the hope Of cracking its brown nuts, had this fair dame, Jane Proudfoot, thaw'd an icicle like thee. Enter MABEL MORAN. MABEL. Now, peace be here ; Saint Allan be your watch ; Say, where is Walter Maxwell ? Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 29 PENPONT. Conscience, carlin ! Hast thou been casting cantraips and witch-pranks Neath the cold moon, till a water-spout fell on thee ? Or hast thou sought the black-bear's dugs, beyond The polar star, to lythe thy cauldron sauce ? Or pluck'd a drowned sailor from the bottom Of Solway, for the tar beneath his nail? MABEL. Take thou this good brass bodle ; hold thy tongue ; . Did e'er thy wisdom bring thee so much gain ? Wilt thou prate still ? do, if thy weazon's steel, And cares for no sharp knife. For they are near Whose hands would choke thee, teaching men the charm, To save the world from sinking. Let me go ; Else I shall freeze thee to a drop of ice, And hang thee 'neath the moon. PENPONT. Lo ! woman, woman, I care not for thee 5 in my bonnet stem I wear a plant can make thy cauldron sauce As harmless as new milk. For it was thou Who sank the boat, with many a precious soul, Crossing the river for a cast of grace At godly Quarrelwood. I know thee well. Thou in the form of a fair youth beset That saintly damsel, May Macrone, among The green broom of Dalswinton, and made tight The string of her apron. And thou shook'st he Kirk O' Kirkmabreek aboon sweet Shadrach Peden, 30 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. When, to the Galloway heathen, he cried, " Clap The fire of hell to their tails." MABEL. Peace hold thy peace And hold my staff till I seek Walter Maxwell. PEN PONT. Thy staff ! I'd sooner touch the brazen serpent That drew the saints to sin. Go cast it down Into that hot pit o'er which thou'lt be hung Till the buckles melt in thy shoon. MABEL. Hold my witch staff, Else I shall turn it to a fisher rod, And thee into a fiend, and make thee angle Till doom i' the dub o' darkness. (Exit.) PEN PONT. Fearful woman ! This staff of hers was cut what time the moon Was in the wane, and she works cantraips with it. There's devilish virtue in it, that from the wisest Can win their best resolves ; can make gray hairs Grow wanton; make a peasant beldame, clad In hodan, seem a lady robed in silk With a sark of sneap- white holland. It should bum, But tis no earthly fire that may consume it ; And it might turn me, by some cursed prank, Into a wonder for the world to gaze at. (Exeunt.) Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 31 SCENE VII. Caerlaverock-hall. Enter LORD WALTER MAXWELL, and LADY MAXWELL, LADY MAXWELL. Thou must not stand on earth, like a carved saint Which men do bow to, but which ne'er returns Their gratulation. LORD MAXWELL. Love, there is a voice Still whispering, that all we love or hate All we admire, exalt, or hope to compass, Till the stars wax dim amid our meditation, Is but as words graved on the ocean sands, Which the returning tide blots out for ever. For I'm grown sick of the world's companionship, Of camp and city, and life's pomp the song Of bards impassion'd, who rank earth's gross dust With things immortal of the gladsome sound Of dulcimer and flute the corrupt tongue O' the shrewd politician. O ! for a rude den In some vast desart there I'd deem each star, That lumined me in loneliness, was framed To coronet my brows that the bloom'd bough On which the wild bees cluster'd, when its scent Fill'd all the summer air, graced my hand more Than a dread sceptre : and the little birds Would know us, love ; the gray and pleasant wren 32 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. Would hang her mansion for her golden young Even in our woodland porch. LADY MAXWELL. Thy country's woes Have robb'd thee of thy peace have pluck'd thy spirit Down from its heaven, and made sweet sleep to thee The bitterest bliss of life. LORD MAXWELL. Is there a bosom Full of a loyal heart ? Is there a knee That seeks the dust at eve ? a holy tongue, Whose orisons find heaven ? a noble mind, Whose pure blood has flow'd down through the pure veins Of a thousand noble bosoms ? a brave man Who loves his country's ancient name and law, And the famed line of her anointed kings ? Oh heaven ! give him swift wings : the sword, the rack, The halter, and whet axe hold him in chace, And make a den of Scotland, for the fiends To howl and revel in. LADY MAXWELL. But shall we sit, Even as the dove does on the doom'd tree-top, Until the axe strews to the weazel's tooth Her young ones in their down ? shall we go cast Life's heavenly jewel to the pit ? and page, With cap and cringing knee, him, match'd with whom A murderer's hand is milkwhite, and the brow Of a gross peasant, smutch'd with hovel soot, The brow of an archangel ? LORD MAXWELL. Say no more : Sc, 7. SIR MAKMADUKE MAXWELL, 33 My Scotland, whilst one stone of thine is left Unturn'd by ruin's plowshare while one tree Grows green, untouch'd by the destroyer's axe While one foundation stone of palace or church, Or shepherd's hovel, stands unmoved by Tiie rocking of artillery while one stream, . Though curdling with warm life's blood, can frequent Its natural track while thou hold'st holy dust Of princes, heroes, sages, though their graves Flood ankle-deep in gore O, I will love thee, And weep for thee ; and fight for thee, while heavea Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of flesh, And can feel temper'd steel. LADY MAXWELL. Oh ! had we here Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he Who would have heir'd thee had I not been blest Above all hope in winning thee ! he was One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve ; In execution swifter : Halbert Comyne, Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw Thy martial aspect and thy merry glance Among the maids at milking time. Yet they Pause mid their rustic charactering, and cough, And with a piece of proverb or old song They close the tale, look grave, and shake the head, And hope thou may'st be blest and bide abroad. 34 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. Enter MABEL MORAN. LORD MAXWELL. Thou hast not come at this dark hour for nought : What means thy hurried foot, and that sharp glance That carries warning with it? MABEL. Bless thy kind heart This night as I stood on my threshold-stone, Clear glow'd the moon, nought spake, save the sweet tongue Of one small rill even as I stood and bless'd Night's loveliness, a beauteous star was thrown From heaven upon thy house, and as it fell, The moon was blotted out and darkness came, Such as the hand might grope. What this might bode, Small space had I to ponder, till the groan Of one in mortal agony was borne P the rush o' the blast ; with it, there came a sound Like Annan in its flood, and a dread fire Ran on the ground. Amid the brightness came Forms visible, their faces smear'd with blood And on their backs, a piteous sight, they bore Thy form, Lord Walter Maxwell ! from thy locks, The locks that maidens loved, thick dropp'd the blood : They bore thee to a visionary grave. Ere thrice I bless'd myself, there came a wind And swept the earth of this dread pageantry : I stood rooted with fear. Some mortal thing I prayed that I might speak to, and straight came Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAX\\ ELL. 35 Men through the wood five stately men, who told Of perils great they scaped from, and enquired The footpath to thy hall. Now, Walter Maxwell, Gird to thy side thy sword, and clasp the hand Of those thou welcomest with a glove of steel ; For two of these five mortals wore the looks Of those dread ones i' the vision. Admonition Comes as a dose i' the death-pang, if thou deem'st I either dream or dote. LORD MAXWELL. My sage good dame, A cot I'll build thee neath my castle wall ; For that wild glen thou livest in yields ripe things About the full of the moon. (A horn is blown.) MABEL. There sounds thy doom- Woe to thy house ! And now, let the hoar head Of him whose tongue was reverenced for sage saws When I was but a baby, the green youth Like corn i' the shot-blade, when the staff of life Is yet as milk i' the ear on whose soft chin The beard's unbudded, the matron in whose ear Grandmother has been music, the sweet babe, Whose tender lips hold yet the mother's milk Uncurdled haste ! All fly this doomed house I hear the death groans lo ! I see the dirks Reek warm with murder's work see ! the blood drops Thick dappling all thy walls alon^ the floor Men stride in blood to the buckles, and grim throngs Of fiery spectres welcome those whose veins Are yet unsluiced with steel. I'll see n<^more, D 2 36 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. But fly thy dwelling, though my footsteps lay O'er acres of dead men and I were paged By all the fiends o' the pit, .".It (Exit.) (Horn blows louder.) Servants enter. LORD MAXWELL. Now hasten thou, And see who summons thus our doors, and what This visitation means. (Exit Servant.) Perhaps some one From a far land, who hopes to find his home Smiling with kindred faces. In the grave Lie those who loved him in the battle field With glorious Grahame they died ! on Marston Moor Perchance they sleep ! by private guile fell they By the swift carbine, or the whetted axe, And all the cruel and the crafty ways In which rebellion works. Enter SERVANT. SERVANT. My lord, a chief, Of martial mien, with followers four, scarce scaped The raging Solway, seeks to be thy guest. LORD MAXWELL. Give them my castle's welcome ; bring them hither. (Exit Servant.) PEN PONT. (Aside.) Where's the dame flown to, whom the foul fiend loves ? Far famed is she for giving a rough guess Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 37 How the world will wag. Lord Maxwell speaks her fair, Tis well his part the boy-lord ne'er had come With a scream to the world, except for her two hands She loosed five witch knots, and the sweet bairn came. Aye, by my sooth, we'll see what comes of this ; Who deals with hags may dread a kittle cast. Enter HALBERT COMYNE and his Companions. LORD MAXWELL. Stranger, I give thee welcome, though thy visit Should strike my castle's cope-stone to the moat. COMYME. 'Tis spoke with noble heart. Could I cast off The marks of many years of warfare rough On persecutor's crests, the scars i' the front, Won in the edge of peril bid the sun Wooe off his burning courtship from my cheek, Then wouldst thou clasp me, though my linked mail Were wreath'd with crested snakes. Not know me yet ? Look on this good sword, 'twas a good man's gift; I've proved its edge on plates of Milan steel. LORD MAXWELL. My Halbert Comyne ! mine own gallant cousin ! And this is thou ! thrice bless thee, my brave Halbert. And thou art safe ? wounds on the cheek and brow, No more ! they say they were found in glory's walk. Not know thee ! thee I dream about ! even thee Whom I have borne so often on my back 38 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. Through the mirk pools otNith ! thou'rt changed indeed From May's sweet blossom to September's brown ; And hast a voice, for that of soft nineteen, Like to the martial trumpet. Welcome him, My fair one ; forth with the white hand that made Me blessed. Call my son ; bring him, though he Had won the love of some particular star To his harp and poet song. LADY MAXWELL. Welcome, thrice welcome: The tongue of the land's familiar with thy fame. Thy name I might have learn'd to love, though it Had ne'er pass'd waking lips. In deepest sleep On thee my lord oft calls ; and, with a tongue That warns mid commendation, urges thee From the chace of desperate steel But now, more meet Soft couch and cheer, than welcoming of lips. COMYNE. (Aside.) A wife and son ! these are new sounds to me ; They choke my proud hopes in life's porch, and fill My hand with my keen sword. I hoped to come To heir this Nithsdale princedom ; and have brought Some chosen spirits from the wars, to share My fortune, and the fortune of the times. Fair lady, I have urged remembrance far, (To Lady Maxwell.) Yet nought so fair or noble can I charm As thee from my mute memory. 1 sail'd, Forsaking some proud beauties ; but none fill'd Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 39 Like thee men's bosoms brimful of sweet love, Nor charm'd the lads who wear gold on their brows, To sue with cap in hand. LORD MAXWELL. She was the pride, The grace of Galloway ; and she is mine. But, gentle cousin, now refresh, repose thee ; And I will wooe thine ear to all the woes That press now on poor Scotland. (Exeunt.) 40 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. ' f W>f t93TW >f> flflfffhr >pj-'-i>. '( ;-* *:ff *-,[* ,;ff.T iwdt na .fciov Tjj'jTr ori 1/7 ah.o? -' , b'nr-; . ? r / i ni uj;3 ffii/.' :, \\ 11% .J.rrwxv.r. n i: .SCENE I. Caerlaverock Castle. t -WJ.7l 8907? ^rfiii.'i crttfia iMriifl-so.rtf Ifiv r i-'.'A jEnfer HALBERT COMYNE. COMYNE. 'Tis said there is an hour in the darkness, when Man's brain is wondrous fertile, if nought holy Mix with his musings. Now, whilst seeking this, I've worn some hours away ; yet my brain's dull, As if a thing call'd grace stuck to my heart, And sicken'd resolution. Is my soul tamed And baby-rid with the thought that flood or field Can render back, to scare men and the moon, The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb ? And what if it is so? Shall I lose the crown Of my most golden hope, because its circle Is haunted by a shadow ? Shall I go wear Five summers of fair looks, sigh shreds of psalms, Pray in the desart till I fright the fox, Gaze on the cold moon and the cluster'd stars, And quote some old man's saws 'bout crowns above, Watch with wet eyes at death-beds, dandle the child, And cut out elder whistles for him who knocks Red earth from clouted shoon? Thus may I buy Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 41 Scant praise from tardy lips ; and when I die, Some ancient hind will scratch, to scare the owl, A death's head on uiy grave-stone. If I live so, May the spectres dog my heels of those I slew I* the gulph of battle ; wise men cease their faith In the sun's rising ; soldiers no more trust The truth of temper'd steel. I never loved him. He topt me as a tree that kept the dew And balmy south wind from me : fair maids smiled; Glad minstrels sang ; and he went lauded forth, Like a thing dropt from the stars. At every step Stoop'd hoary heads unbonneted ; white caps Hung in the air ; there was clapping of hard palms, And shouting of the dames. All this to him Was as the dropping honey ; but to me 'Twas as the bitter gourd. Thus did I hang, As his robe's tassel, kissing the dust, and flung Behind him for boy's shouts, for cotman's dogs To bay and bark at. Now from a far land, From fields of blood, and extreme peril I come, Like an eagle to his rock, who finds his nest Fill'd with an owlet's young. For he had seen One summer's eve a milkmaid with her pail, And, 'cause her foot was white, and her green gown Was spun by her white hand, he fell in love : Then did he sit and pen an amorous ballad ; Then did he carve her name in plum-tree bark ; And, with a heart e'en soft as new press'd curd, 42 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. Away he walk'd to wooe. He swore he loved her: She said, cream curds were sweeter than lord's love : He vow'd 'twas pretty wit, and he would wed her : She laid her white arm round the fond lord's neck, And said his pet sheep ate her cottage kale, And they were naughty beasts. And so they talk'd ; And then they made their bridal bed i' the grass, No witness but the moon. So this must pluck Things from my heart I've hugg'd since I could count What horns the moon had. There has been with me A time of tenderer heart, when soft love hung Around this beadsman's neck such a fair string Of what the world calls virtues, that I stood Even as the wilder'd man who dropp'd his staff, And walk'd the way it fell to. I am now More fiery of resolve. This night I've wiped The milk of kindred mercy from my lips ; I shall be kin to nought but my good blade, And that when the blood gilds it that flows between Me and my cousin's land. Who's there ? Etiter DOUGAN and HOGAN. DOUGAN. 'Tis I, Come from the green-wood bough, where I have dug A den for stricken deer. 'Tis in a spot Where moonshine is a marvel ; and the sun May look from the mid heaven, and find it not. An owl sat high, and whoop'd : a raven croak'd ; So. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 43 A huge black grim one visible on a tree : O O Good Ned Neal's heart beat audible with fear, And thrice he swore the hole was deep enough. HOGAN. I have walk'd forth on the side o' the salt sea ; The fisher's nets are stretch'd upon the beach, Nor is there foot of living thing abroad, Nor sound in the wide world. By the sheer cliff I've moor'd the boat ; three willing strokes of oars May launch it far beyond the plummet's depth. COMYNE. ' Tis done, like men well skill'd in the good deeds That from their foreheads wipe the world's hot sweat. And now, this night, let every look be mirth ; Let none cry havoc as he draws the sword, But leap up, when I give the signal thus, With ready swords, and all as mute as shadows. When good Lord Walter's to the greenwood gone, And when his dame, and her young ballad maker, Have tasted Solway's saltest surge ; we'll raise The cry of men at whose throats, when asleep, Murder made bare his knife ; and we'll awake The castle with a wild and clamorous outcry ; And we'll paint thick our cheeks with seeming terror ; Then, all at once, tell of a fearful 'sault Made on the tower by arm'd and desperate men. DOUGAN. We'll do it, and do it quick as a thunder clap. (Exeunt Dougan and Hogan.) 44 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. COMYJSE. To night a joyous husbandman has call'd Lord Maxwell's menials to a merry-making ; There, too, goes Marmaduke, and with him goes That bonnie maiden whose dark glance has given me Something to sigh for. Now will I go look Upon their mirth as one who noteth nought, And then I'll court my fortunes with my sword. (Exit.) SCENE II. Caerlaverock Wood. Enter SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. SIR MARMADUKE. How sweet is this night's stillness : soft and bright Heaven casts its radiance on the streams, and they Lie all asleep, and tell the vaulted heaven The number of her stars. I see the doves Roosting in pairs on the green pine tree tops ; The distant ocean 'mid the moonlight heaves, All cluster'd white with sleeping water fowl. Now where the moon her light spills on yon towers, I turn my sight, but not that I may try If her chaste circle holds a world more worth Man's worshipping than this. See see oh see Lights at her window ! blessed is the air Her blooming cheek that kisses : looks she forth, To see if earth hold aught that's worth her love ? O let me steal one look at her sweet face So. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 45 For she doth still turn her dark eyes from me ; And she is silent as yon silver star That, shows her dwelling place. (Exit.) SCENE III. A Farm House. Enter SIMON GRAEME, MARK MACGEE, PENPONT, Hinds, Maidens, and Musicians. GRAEME. Come, bound all to the floor from the sweet maid P the middle of her teens, to the staid dame Who was young men's delight i' the green year Afore mirk-Monday. Haste ; leap shoulder high, Ye gladsome lads ; here is no standing corn ; Nought harder than white fingers for your touch. What ! must the maidens wooe ye ? I have seen, And that's no old tale, when I've made them spring And pant in dancing like the hunted hart. Come, screw your pegs, man make the mole, that digs Five fathom from your heels, run back in his hole, Scared by the gladsome clamour : now begin. MUSICIAN. I'll play a tune, a serious one and sweet. (Plays.) FIRST HIND. Cease, cease thou saintly kittler o' catgut ; I'd liefer shake my legs to the moan of a storm Than to such dolorous music. Faith, I'd make 46 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. Music far sweeter with a wooden bowl, And two horn spoons ; or may I kiss nae mair The lips o' Jenny Jop here where she stands. SECOND HIND. Preserve us ! let him play what tune he likes : I'd dance as gaily to the " babes i' the wood," As to " green sleeves " so let's have the douce tune ; We'll make it soon a wanton ane, I warrant thee. Enter PENPONT, singing. And saw ye aught of my bonnie moorhen ? And saw ye aught of my bonnie moorhen ? First she flew but, and syne she flew ben, Then away to the hills flew my bonnie moorhen. PENPONT. Here's steaming punch, and haggis reeking rich ; Sound of tight fiddle strings, and smacking, too, Of maiden's lips. Now, if their lips in kissing Gave crowns and kingdoms, such like dainty sweets Are not for Auld Penpont keep, woeful man, Thy grey hairs from temptation. (Sings) For I'm but a silly auld man, Gaun hirpling over a tree ; And for wooing a lass i'the dark, The kirk came haunting me. GRAEME. Thou'rt welcome as the May-flower though thy locks Have a Decemberish look. PENPONT. How's Simon Graeme Of Kittlenaket? e'en going leaping round Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 47 Amangthe dames, and wi' a touch o' the hand O * And word i' the ear making their cheeks the hue O' the rose in July. That's a gallant trade, And of old standing. I maun look and sigh (Sings) Though I be auld and doited now, And though my pow be bell'd aboon : Yet I hae been, upon a day, The pride of a' the parishen. GRAEME. Come, cast aside thy bonnet and thy staff, And throw to care complaint about gray locks ; There's mirth in thee might win a widow's heart : Faith, late I saw thee leaping rafter high, And calling loud, " Maids, look at sixty-eight." PENPONT. Thou'rt one o' the choice spirits o' the earth ; Lend me thy nief thou keepest mirth and humour Alive amang us ; but for Simon Graeme, Our converse would be controversy ; and mirth Would have an end. Gude keep the blythe good man Of Kittlenaket from the hapless gift Of preaching and expounding and keep too (To Mark) Sic gifts from Mark Macgee : I've seen the day Thou wert a sinful smiler, and a singer Of sappy sangs, such as make merry maids Look through their lily fingers, and cry " fye." MACGEE. So thou art laughing yet : could I but catch thee 4S SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. Singing a psalm tune seriously 'twere mirth Might serve for seven year. PENPONT. 'Faith, men grow lean On prayer alone : I never knew but one Who wax'd the lustier for't ; Sue Sighaway, Of Cummertrees, who pray'd See ! Simon, see ! Well done, my merry masters 'faith, ye set My frozen blood a moving, and I think (Sings') If a' my duds were off, And nought but hale claes on ; O, I could wooe a young lass As well as a wiser man. SCENE IV. Farm House continued. Enter SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL and MART DOUGLAS, the latter in a rustic disguise. SIR MARMADUKE. 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. Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 49 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 MARMADUKE. Is this thy wife, kind Simon ? We shall make Thy hall roof wag to its remotest raft : Thou'rt welcomer than joyous-eyed fifteen. HALBERT COMYNE. COMYNE (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 ? .50 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 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 low 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. Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 51 FIRST HIND. Dew-drops and diamonds ! Comes she o' the blood That wore the sinful leaf? then sinful man May speak to corrupt woman. SIR MARMADUKE. What is this ? What crimsons thus thy temple lilies ? MARY DOUGLAS. Come, come away, for something evil haunts us. (Exeunt.) COMYNE. 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, 1 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 E 2 62 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 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 toiFd 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.) MACGEE. 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 Of 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, Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 53 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.) PENPONT. 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 Of 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 tomb, 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 dead man'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 ! 64 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 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. (Scene changes.) SCENE V. Caerlaverock Wood. Enter SIMON GRAEME and MARK MACGEE. GRAEME. 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. Sc. o. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 56 MACGEE. 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 of 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 ; 66 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 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 GRAEME. 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.) Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 57 SCENE VI. Caerlaverock Wood. Enter DOUGAN and NEAL; the latter bearing the mur- dered body of Lord Maxwell, the former with a lantern. NEAL. Hist ! hear'stthou nought ! or was't the dead-man's hand That shook the hazel bough ? Tis a dreary place. (Chaunts.) Yestreen I saw the new moon Wi' the dead moon in her arm. O for one drop of most unrighteous brandy ! I'm all as cold as a corse. Douc AN. I wish thou wert one. Can'st thou not rather sigh some scrap of prayer ? Thou'lt waken all the ravens. Some sad hind, Whose lass a pedlar from his arms seduced With a remnant of red ribbon, here perchance Talks to the owl. NEAL. Prayer ! I can mind no prayer, Not even a shred, though I were doom'd for lack To slumber with my back-load. Curse thy haste ; I've spilt a mouthful of the rarest spirit E'er charm'd the tooth-ache. (Chaunti.) One night our captain he did dream There came a voice, which said to him, Prepare you and your companie ; To-morrow night you must lodge with me. 58 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. DOUGAN. The den we dug for thy sweet back-load is Grown solid ground again. I thought 'twas here, Under this blasted pine. Come, soft, man, soft ! Confound these honeysuckle twigs, they hang Their tendrils in one's teeth. NEAL. (Chaunts.) One moon-light night as I sat high, I look'd for one, but two came by ; The tree did tremble, and I did quake To see the hole these two did make. He's living, Hubert, he's living ! his right hand Has given me a staggerer i' th' teeth. Curse on Hab Cbmyne's fears ; we might have denn'd him deep I' the marble floor, beyond a sleuth-hound's scent, Or cast him in the deep and silent sea. MACGEE. (Aside.) These are two fiends who haunt the saintly steps Of covenanting Comyne. They work his will When he but moves his finger. GRAEME. They've brought work Of murder's shaping : stay, let us list all, And eke their broken utterings together; And run the track of murder's foot till 't reach The threshold o' the plotter. N EAL. , Hubert, I hear Men's tongues nay, stay, 'tis but a mouse i' the grass ; And yet mine ear shaped it like human speech. So. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 59 DoUGAN. And what o' that ? a mouse may chirp like a man ; A dead lord's hand lives when the green bough waves it. Fear is a bogglish follower. Here's the grave ; Measure it, lord ; feel if it's cut to fit thee. Hab Comyne swore thou wert but a sad lord, And a most sorry beadsman. From his hands Thou hadst a passage to heaven, bloody and brief. And yet thou braved us nobly. When thou saw The rude steel near thee, I see yet thine eye Lighten as thou smote the foremost. Oh thy look ! As thy shrieking lady saw thee ; it might make The stars burn down from heaven, and the clear moon Descend from the sky, that men might see to hunt Us to destruction. NEAL. Thou wilt preach about it, Uttering fine words and sayings, sugar smooth, Till the wild birds will learn to sing the tale ; The stupid owl to whoop it in day-light ; And the chased hart will couch upon the grave, That men may find out murder. DOUGAN. Coward priest, Why didst thou leave the pulpit ? Thou didst drown Thy fears in foaming flagons ; didst awake With lewd song and wild riot the bright sun, That rose, nor shamed thee ; thou didst find thy love Among the dames whom even seafaring men Shunn'd like the whirlpool ; and thou didst blaspheme 60 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. Till the profane grew sick. Fly from my sight, Nor stay where brave men are. To thee I speak not ; But with my heart I commune, where I find What sickens contemplation. Curdling blood Will smell i' the nose of justice, smother'd 'neath All the Siberian snow. To mine eyes come, From the earth's centre, arm'd and fiery shapes ; Cherubim's blades are bared. Beneath my feet The grass seems growing daggers. Now no more I'll look that way no more. GRAEME. Look this way then, Damn'd murderer ; 'tis the last time thou wilt look An honest man i' the face. DOUGAN. What devil art thou ? If thou'rt not framed of sterner stuff than man, Thou'lt howl beneath this steel. (Draws his sword.) GRAEME. Now, Hubert Dougan, Stand from that noble corse : I will not mix The holy blood that dyes his garments through And stains the grass, with the rank gore that makes The fires of hell so grim. So thus I greet thee. (Fight.) MACGEE. I know thee well ; and all who see thy face Shrink back, and say, a villain. Curse the sea That spared thee for such havoc ! Now go howl F the fiery vault. Thy gentle master soon Shall wail and quaff the liquid fire with thee. (Fight. Neal falls.) Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 61 GRAEME. Thy look is noble. I war not on souls. Wilt thou not yield thee ? Then say one brief prayer, Or have at thy heart, for sin has sore subdued thee. DOUGAN. I yield not till steel makes me ; prayer, to me, More terrible is than thou. My life has been Spent in war's stormy surge, and peace and prayer Are matters of strange name. Come, do thy best. (Fight. Dougan falls.) My curse now, Halbert Corny ne, on thy name ; O ! I shall meet and beard thee, in the den We're doom'd to dwell in, and our strife shall be Eternal as our torments. (Dies.) GRAEME. Mark Macgee, Now may this night o' the year be mark'd and cursed With earth and ocean storm ; be the sick air Thick of blue plague ; the dew be curdled blood ; May cities quake, and the foundation stones Of holy temples shake like leaves on waters ; May unbless'd bones of murderers walk the earth ; The fiery shapes of those too hot i' the pit, Troop to and fro, visible to men's eyes. Here is a proud star cast from the high heaven, And no lights left behind. (Looking on Lord Maxwell.) MACGEE. As a fair tree, There liest thou, smote and stricken in the bud. Thou wert to me the star to the mariner, 62 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. The soft sweet rind unto the tender tree. We've dyed our lips with wild berries together. Thou satest a worshipp'd thing i' the world ; and thou Didst wind all hearts about thee. May he rot Till he infect the moon, he who has laid Thy blessed head so low ! GRAEME. My friend, leal friend, Heaven has some fearful purpose in all this ; So let us not our swords draw rash, and shout, Ho ! Comyne, thou'rt a murderer ; thou hast slain Thy cousin, and his wife, and gentle son, Usurping their inheritance ; and thou Unworthy art to live. God has his time, Even as the seasons have ; and some dread sign Seen by all men, and read by us alone Some sign on earth, dread, fearful, manifest Shall surely warn us, when that his revenge Is ripe for innocent blood. So sheath thy sword, And wear not thou thy purpose on thy brow. Now let us lay mute earth to earth, and go In silence home, stir with the lark, and seek The castle-gate, and hear what ears may hear. (They bury the bodies, and exeunt.) Aci3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 63 ACT III. SCENE I. A Cavern on the Galloway Coast. Enter MABEL MORAN, and Outlawed Royalists. MABEL. Hast thou look'd seaward ? hast them landward look'd ? And look'd to heaven ? then say what thou hast seen. FIRST ROYALIST. There is a strange commotion on the earth, And trouble on the waters ; heaven's whole stars Stream seven-fold bright ; a ruddy red one dropt Down on Caerlaverock castle ; lo ! it changed From its bright starry shape to a flaming shroud : I heard a loud sob, and a funeral wail Flights of blood-ravens darken'd all the pines, And clapt their wings, and seem'd to smell out prey : I read the hour upon the chapel clock, And I dared look no longer. MABEL. Thou hast done Wisely and well. Now, William Seaton, say Didst thou sit on Barnhourie cliff, and watch Sea-shore and heaven ? Then say what didst thou note. SECOND ROYALIST. A fearful cry came from the flood, a cry, 64 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Between Caerlaverock and Barnhourie rock, Of an unearthly utterance ; every wave And they roll'd in heaped multitudes and vast Seem'd summited with fire. Along the beach There ran a rushing wind ; and with the wind There came a voice more shrill than human tongue, Crying, " Woe ! woe ! " I look'd again, and saw Four figures sailing in a bonnie boat, Two rude and strong, the third one slighter seem'd, A pale and martial form ; the fourth one was A mourning dame even like Caerlaverock's lady, With eyes upturn'd and white hands held to heaven. A strong wind came, the green waves mounted high, And while the waters and the wild fire flash'd, The peasants twain were daunted sore and bow'd Their heads in terror up then leap'd the youth, His bared sword like devouring lightning fell I heard a groan, and then another groan, And something plunging mid the midnight wave, And so I came to tell thee. MABEL. Heaven, I thank thee, The green ear's spared yet, but the ripe is cut, And by a villain's sickle. Brief's thy time, Thou ruthless spiller of thy kinsman's blood : A hand shall rise against thee, and a sword Shall smite thee mid thy glory. For the sun Shall walk but once from Burnswark's bonnie top To lonely Criflfel, till we hear a sound Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 65 Of one smote down in battle. Now, my friends, There is a bright day coming for poor Scotland : 'T will brighten first in Nithsdale, at the hour Foretold by our prophetic martyr, when The slayers' swords were on him. Now be men : Gird to your sides your swords ; rush to the flood ; To the good work of redemption. (Exeunt.) SCENE II. Coast of Galloway. Enter SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL, LADY MAXWELL, and Outlawed Royalists. SIR MARMADUKE. Kind, gallant strangers, thanks ; you found us out In a most perilous moment. FIRST ROYALIST. Thy best friends Were God and thy good sword ; thou hadst made us But idle lookers on. SECOND ROYALIST. I tell thee, youth, I have seen gallant knights unhorsed, and 1 Have crack'd my spear upon a prince's mail : And I've seen tried men start, when the foe's sword Came like a thing loved blood. But, by St. Andrew, Thou'rt made of peerless stuff. I ne'er saw one That leap'd so dauntless in the fearful gap 66 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Which gapes 'tween life and death. Thou'rt forged for war, For thou art fashion'd of a thunder-bolt, And thy sword's living fire. What's thy name ? SIR MARMADUKE. He that has nothing in this wide bad world, No roof to jut his desolate head beneath, No sheltering place from the pursuer's sword, Nothing he loves he evermore shall see, Nothing but his weak sword and hapless self, Has no use for a name. FIRST ROYALIST. By Charles's blood, (Dost thou start youth !) I love thee for that speech ; And I will seek a noble name for thee. These seven long summers have I lived in strife : At times arm'd, watching on the mountain tops ; Sometimes asleep in caverns, with maii'd brow, And bared blade in my hand ; and oftentimes, Even glad of such diversity, I've rode Where steeds were rushing on the splintering spears, And lofty crests were stooping, gaining gashes O'er which bright eyes have wept. But only one Of all men I have led to fight or follow'd But only one seem'd born to be obey'd ; But one alone could like a god mould hearts In valour's heavenly warmth. Thou art his on ; Welcome, Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 67 SIR MARMADUKE. Noble Sir, If thy right hand hold charity with wretchedness ; If thou dost reverence noble birth, or lend'st Thy hand to the oppressed one, and turn'st Thy sword on the oppressor; O ! if thou Hast ever knelt to beauty e'er gazed back, As thou didst spur thy courser on the spears, To the land where dwelt thy loved one, pity us : For I have lost a noble father, and lost Him by a villain's hand. SECOND ROYALIST. What! Halbert Comyne's ? I know him well ; we've breasted steeds together On a field far from this : and well I know him For one as brave as ever spurr'd to battle ; And I know too I would not choose to wear The head he dream'd to cleave FIRST ROYALIST. There are some fearful tidings in the wind ; There are hot coursers spurring to and fro ; Musters of armed men ; and summon'd chiefs Begin to wear blank looks. I tell ye, friends, I dream'd yestreen that crafty Cromwell lay Even in the death-pang : see now, here comes one, To tie my faith to dreams. Enter Page. PAGK. Sir William Seaton I v 2 68 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. My Lord Protector's gone upon a journey, Where, the elect know not. THIRD ROYALIST. Northward belike, For here sits Monk as crafty as a spider T' the middle of his mesh. PAGE. Some hotter clime Tis thought he seeks ; he has had cold fits of late. FIRST ROYALIST. Come, cease thy riddling ; he is dead ; I knew This gladsome tale some hours since : I know too Our monarch's navy, thick with shining helms, Will soon stand for the coast. Come, draw your swords, Soldiers of good King Charles, and shout and kneel, And let us vow a vow. SECOND ROYALIST. Aye, let us vow To strike Caerlaverock cope-stone to the moat, And in its place set Halbert Comyne's head. FIRST ROYALIST. We must our steps choose warily. Halbert Comyne Appears commission'd to blunt his sharp sword On the bosom bones of loyal men, who love The ancient line of their anointed kings : The clouds dropt down, the incensed Solway rose As she ne'er rose before, but sank him not, While to the bottom went the bonnie ship, And all her gallant mariners. Now note He seems all lonely in his kinsman's tower, Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 69 His good sword all his soldiers. Blow one blast Of this small bugle by his castle gate, Or at his turrets shake your right hand thus And armed men will leap up to his aid, As if the green lea bore them at his bidding. Now, gentle lady, deep in yon green wood Stands the lone shealing of a dame far famed For cunning skill by shepherds. This shrewd page Shall guide thy footsteps at the day-dawn, lady ; She is a dame, tender, and tried, and true. SIR MARMADUKE. We know this sage dame ; she's as true as light Unto the morning. Honour'd lady-mother, An angel has forsook our house, and now The fiend inhabits there. LADY MAXWELL. My son, my son, When tear-drops fall from heroes, we may look For women's eyes to weep. Bury thy grief Deep in thy bosom, and let maidens' cheeks Wear tears, not thine. Now mark and mind my words : The way of glory narrow is, and straight ; That of ambition, short, and bright, and broad : Touch glory, and thy hands shall seem as snow Ere it hath reach'd the earth. Whoso doth touch Ambition's finger, yea, or kiss the hem Of her far flowing robe, shall smell of blood As far as from the green earth to the moon. 70 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Thou art the last of an illustrious line ; And there is spilt blood on thy father's floor. (Exit Lady Maxwell.) SIR MARMADUKE* Yes, there is spilt blood on my father's floor, Blood dearer far than flows in my sad heart, Dearer than aught that 's dear to me on earth : The avengement of that blood shall be a tale While Crifiel keeps her stance, while gentle Nith Flows at her foot. Old men shall hold their hands Toward Caerlaverock castle, and relate To their grandchildren how it came to pass. SCENE III. Caerlaverock Halt. Enter HALBERT COMYNE. COMYNE. Fresh smells the air of morning ; and I see Red in the eastern heaven. Tis some hours now Since I have wash'd my hands, yet none return From the good greenwood and the deep wide sea, To greet me with good tidings. Hubert ! Hubert ! Thou that dost errands swift as thunder doth, Why lingerest thou ? What ! has the green ground gaped And swallow'd them up too ? Even the yare sea, That ne'er refused the bloodiest offering, keeps So. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 71 Present and giver both. O ! this doth mix Perdition in my sugar'd cup. Now, now I hear the sound of coming feet ah, no ! Cursed wind, this is thy mockery ; mayest thou Ne'er slumber 'mongst the odorous violets more, But sleep on rotten fens. Now I must wear The aspect of amazement and strange horror : Terror must seem to sway my tongue, and straight Must fearful words escape it. I must call With the voice of one who sees some fearful shape, To which creeds give no credence. Tut no more ; I shall wear looks that might seduce the stars To shoot down for mere pity. Ho ! awake ! Awaken ! rise ! or sleep till the sharp steel . In murderers' hands invade you. Will you sleep Till the blood of slaughter'd bodies flood your couches '/ Awake ! or drowse till doomsday. Haste, oh haste ! Ring the alarm bell ! let the trumpet sound Till it shakes down the cedars ! Enter SERVANTS. FIRST SERVANT. What, oh what Means this most fearful summons ? COMYNE. Thou blank fool, Thou slumbering coward, may perdition seize Those that can slumber now ! Yet thou couldst sleep At the loud thunder's elbow ! Haste, now haste ! 72 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Warn all the warlike vassals of thy lord ! Saddle the fleetest steeds ! Dost tarry still ? SECOND SERVANT. What, in the name o' the Eagle and the Rood, Calls for this sudden summons ? COM Y N E. Thou sleep'st yet, Thou creature made up in a hasty moment ; Now, by the blood of thy good lord that reeks Yet on the sword that shed it, I will make thee The ravens' meat. Enter WOMEN. FIRST WOMAN. Now what means a' this din? COMYNE. My bonnie maid, thine eyes are sparkling yet With dreaming of caresses. My old dame, Bind up thy gray locks, and go to thy prayers : Hast thou been revelling late ? Can sixty years Be tempted like sixteen ? Fob ! SECOND WOMAN. Me, sir! me, sir! A king on the throne a preacher o' the word Nay, even the laird of Collistown himself, Laird of three miles o' moorland, shouldnae tempt A dame sedate as me : my certe ! tempted ? COMYNE. Not armed yet, you tardy rustics .'Arm! Mount ! spur ! the spoiler has fallen upon your house, And I alone am left : come, mount and follow. Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 73 SECOND SERVANT. I'm arm'd ; and, Halbert Comyne, swift as thine My steed shall fly ; as sharp shall smite my sword ; So let us hasten. Who has done this deed ? Where is my lord, and my thrice honour'd lady, And young Sir Marmaduke ? COMYNE. All dead and gone ! 'Twas at the morn's third hour Be those slaves arm'd? 1 heard a shriek ; and, ere I rose, a groan Came from a dying man. I snatch'd my sword, Flew down the stair, and, lo ! the hall was full Of armed men, and they had slain thy lord, Ta'en captive his fair lady and her son. SECOND SERVANT. Oh, words of woe ! who can have done this deed ? COMYNE. They were all men of evil mien, all arm'd With brand and dagger, and, in desperate deeds, Skilful they seem'd ; and they were closely swathed In dark gray mantles : o'er their brows were pluck'd Their bonnets in sad wise, while to the moon They held their brands, and mutter'd chosen scraps Of Scripture threatenings, and to bloody meaning Did turn each spotless word. (Exeunt.) 74 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. SCENE IV. Cumlongan Castle. Morning. Enter MARY DOUGLAS and MAY MORISON. MARY DOUGLAS. Come hither, maiden; dost thou know a tree, A high green tree, upon whose leafy top The birds do build in spring ? This tree doth grow By the clear fountain, on whose virgin breast The water lily lies. There the pale youth, Sick in his summer beauty, stoops and drinks : Grave matrons say, the waters have strange virtues, Which this green tree drinks through his veins, and wide To the joyous air he spreads his balsam'd bough. Thou know'st it not. MAY MORISON. Lady, I know it rarely ; Far up the straight stem of this lovely tree The honeysuckle climbs, and from its boughs Flings down its clusters, till the blossoms wreathe The passers' foreheads. 'Tis the self-same tree True lovers swear by. I have three of its leaves Sew'd i' the hem o' my kirtle. 'Neath its bough Thou left'st thy snood, to greet Lord Walter Maxwell, When his fair son off-capp'd thee like a goddess. MARY DOUGLAS. Cease, cease, thou know'st it ; now be swift, and haste Unto this tree. Fly like a bird that leaves Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 75 No stamp of its wing upon the yielding air. Its centre stem shoots as 't would say, Ye stars, I'll stop when I'm among you. See if this Be shorn in twain by fire ; and if two names, Carved curious i' the bark, are razed out By the lightning's fiery bolt. MAY MORISON. Lady, I'll go, And come as the Scripture-dove did, when she bore Tidings of happy sort. (Exit.) MARY DOUGLAS. Can there be truth In the dreams of night? To the airy semblances Of possible things can I glew on belief Firm as my creed ? for the night visions oft Take their complexion from our troubled thoughts ; And yet wise ones have said, to favour'd men The future woes are vision'd forth and shaped By heavenly hand and gentle. Thus sad things Come softly on the mind, as the dove's down Drops on the tender grass. Though my mind's not Hoodwink'd with rustic marvels, I do think There are more things i' the grove, the air, the flood, Yea, and the charnel'd earth, than what wise man, Who walks so proud as if his form alone Fill'd the wide temple of the universe, Will let a frail maid say. I'd write i' the creed Of the hoariest man alive, that fearful forms, Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels ; That shapes too horrid for our gaze stand o'er 76 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. The murder'd dust, and for revenge glare up, Until the stars weep fire for very pity. If it be so, then this sad dream, that shook My limbs last night, and made my tresses creep As crested adders, is a warning tongue, Whose words deep woes will follow. Re-enter MAY MORISON. MAY MORISON. Hearken, lady : On the tree top two cushat doves are cooing; At its green foot two wanton hares are sporting ; A swarm of brown bees cluster on its stem, And loud's their swarming song. No leaf is touch'd. The tree looks green and lovely. MARY DOUGLAS. Thou deservest A silken snood for this. Now tell me, maiden, Hast thou e'er dream'd sweet dreams that came to pass ? And hast thou faith in them, as in the vows Which youths of seventeen breathe ? MAY MORISON. Dreams! I have dream'd Such things would win a gentle lady's ear, Wrought in a tender ballad. Faith in them I venture little. For of empty shrouds, And coffins too, I've dream'd, and graves that gaped For the neat length of my little body, lady. MARY DOUGLAS. But hast thou ne'er dream'd that at evening, which The morrow's sun reveal'd before it set ? Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 77 MAY MORISON. Since I was sixteen, I have dream'd such dreams, 'T would take no slender wisdom to expound them. I've dream'd of gentle kisses kisses ne'er Have touch'd my lips, except perchance i' the dark, A twilight smack or two ; but these none saw, And are not worth the counting. I've dream'd too, Of trooping 'midst bride-favours, to the sound Of dulcimer and flute ; on my head, too, I've dream'd the bride's hose fell ; yet, I am here, As single as a neighbourless stocking. None Ask the kind question which all maidens long for. MARY DOUGLAS. I ask for dreams, and thou givest me a history. MAY MORISON. The best o' my dreams is coming. Late last night, I dream'd I met with the dear lad o' my heart By a green bank, where the rich violets blush'd, Expecting to be press'd. I woke with joy ; then fell In pleasant sleep again, and straight I dream'd I heard my name called i' the kirk, and loud Rose the crowds' shouting, as I swept along Beside my gallant bridegroom. I had on Your gown of satin, with the golden flounce, The bonnet, too, you promised me, all deck'd With pearls, at least ; and proud I look'd ; and so The bridal bed was made, and I was laid Atween the lily sheets. n SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. MARY DOUGLAS. Come, come, no more The gown I'll give thee, and the bonnet too, Sown all with Solway pearl. To these I'll add, When this dream proves no mockery, snowy sheets, As white as those which visited thy sleep. Lo ! who come here ? men who have urged their way Through flood and forest ; at their bosoms hang Leaves, rent from boughs in passing. Simon Graeme, Why all this show of steel ? Haste, fearful haste, Seems in thy steps, and sad news on thy tongue. Enter HALBERT COMYNE, SIMON' GRAEME, MARK MACGEE, Servants and Shepherds. GRAEME. News, gentle lady ! news of that sad sort, To turn thy cheek-rose pale, and make the tears Course down the snow o' thy bosom, while it heaves Till it makes the cambric burst. MARY DOUGLAS. Tell me, oh, tell me ! Ere fancy's hand lays low all that I love GRAEME. Ask Halbert Comyne, beauteous lady; he Can picture forth this tragedy in words That may make murder look less hideous, and Blanch it like boulted snow. For he is versed In those soft soothing words, that take the taint From deeds that smell to the moon. COMYNE. Peace, peasant, peace. Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 79 Weep, gentle lady, there is done a deed That renders day-light hideous ; makes the mother Her baby dash i' the dust, lest its soft hand Should fumble with a dagger ; that doth call From the creation's centre to high heaven, With a voice more audible than thunder. Our castle Is sack'd. Our good lord, and fair lady, with Their only son, and all that could bear brand, Yea, even my men, whose nerves were nerves of steel, Are swept from 'neath the sky, and I alone, Though I sought death, and with my broad sword bared Follow'd them to the wood, and strove to smite Some of the boldest, I alone am left To tell the tale and weep. (Mary Douglas faints.) M A c G E E . Life's roses fade ; And see, the lily of death grows i' the place. Water ! bring me water. GRAEME. Low thou liest, My beauteous fair one ; my keen plowshare ne'er Shared violet half so lovely. Take these drops, Pure from the spring, they are not half so pure As thy most lovely self. MACGEE. The rose, whose lips The dew hath never tasted the chaste lily That hid its bashful bosom from the sun, But look'd sedate unto the modest star, Seem'd ne'er to rne so beautiful and spotless. 80 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. GRAEME. Now all hear this if this sweet lady dies, Then I wait not for sign of heaven, or word, To draw the sword of vengeance. My right hand Shall swiftly smite and sure. Oh ! gaze again ; Thou piece of chaste perfection, gaze again. COMYNE. Peace, varlet, peace ! Deem'st thou this lady is Some slippery dame, whose tardy sense swift cups Have newly overtaken ? GRAEME. Halbert Comyne ; An hour of sin, an age of deep repentance If such be heaven's will ; but make not now, From this maid's sorrow, matter for thy mirth. MARY DOUGLAS. Where is my love, that I may stretch myself By him, and call for swords of cherubim ? Oh ! is he slain, or lost in the wild sea, The ruthless sea, where shrieking Pity's tongue May reach not ? Stand ye there and are ye men, And nursed at women's breasts, while my true love Is torn away by traitors ? There's a time So lay it to your hearts, and think of it When for each hair torn from his precious locks, For every drop shed from his bleeding body, For every sigh he utter'd for each pang That he endured, and for each tear shed for him By maids' or matrons' eyes, a strict account Sc. 4. SIR HARM A DUKE MAXWELL. 81 Will be demanded. But I speak to men With eyes of marble, and with hearts of flint. COMYNE. Of whom speak'st thou, my fair one ? In the strife I saw Lord Maxwell's life-blood on the floor ; His son smote sore, and carried swift away, Bound, with his weeping mother. They are now Beyond the sight of mercy's weeping eyes. GRAEME. O'er this dread night a woeful mysteiy hangs, Which God will take away. For we have sought them By the wide fathomless sea by the green wood Upon the sea sand, and the lily lea ; Nor step, nor trace of man may we espy : O'er this dread night an awful mystery hangs, Which God will in his own time take away. COMYNE. Farewell ! fair lady ; may I hope a time, When for my kinsmen I've sung dool and ta'en Some of their state on mine unworthy shoulders To kneel and offer my poor service to thee ? For tears will dry up like last morning's dew, And grief itself grow gentler ; and the sobs, Which give such awful grace to beauty's woe, Will stop no more the current of free speech. MARY DOUGLAS. Oh ! Halbert Comyne tarry, Halbert Corny ne ; Now let mine arms come never from thy neck : G 82 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Turn me, turn him, into the desolate world ! Take, lord, the rich earth from the east to west, And own all that the sun doth look upon ; Take tower and turret, and the sodded sheal ; Take all mine unsumm'd treasures all that kings Have given in honour of the Douglas name ; And we shall sojourn in the uttermost earth, And never think of thee, save when we pray For thine increase of glory. Halbert Comyne, Give my true love to me. COMYNE. Thy speech errs much, Thou gentle one. I do forgive thee, lady : Thy brain is rapt and wandering, and thou dream'st Of foes in firmest friends. GRAEME. (Aside.) My sword be swift : For I shall sure hear thunder. God's fierce wrath Might find an object here. In heaven above, In earth beneath the spacious air the sea, God gives my sword no signal. Shall I cease My faith in the sign'd promise things reveal'd ; And smite thee as a heathen smites, nor wait For fire to aid my vengeance ? COMYNE. Let's home from vain pursuit. None ever found The mark of the eagle's wing on the soft air He soar'd through, when he left the ravish'd dam Running on the hill-top bleating. Lady, adieu ! Now let your steeds taste the sharp whip and rowel, Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 83 Till the flinty roads yield fire. Tardy rustic ! By heaven, the boor wears disobedient looks. GRAEME. I am a plain blunt man, good sir, and lack Those honey'd words which make the sour taste sweet : I love not sleeping in the dark, where dirks Forget to keep their sheaths ; nor where the feet Of the murderer wear strong wings, which waft him o'er Moat and portcullis. I'm too small a bird To peck with the gore-hawk. MACGEE. Can a man sleep safe When the very air drops daggers ? or close his lids Beneath a roof doom'd to prove heaven's hot fire Is an avenger yet ? COMYNE. Rude churls, remain. I lack not such thick-blooded spirits as you : Yet lay my words to heart. Do not be found Shedding tongue-venom in our peasants' ears ; Else yon grim raven, which now croaking flies From us toward Caerlaverock, he shall share Your quarters with the hounds. (Exit.) GRAEME. Go! Halbert Comyne ! Lord of the gentle deed, and gentle look ; Thou hatest blood as yon black raven doth, Now croaking after thee. MARY DOUGLAS. (To Graeme.) Farewell ! farewell ! I thank you for your pity : you have wound Around my heart. I fain would call you friend : o2 84 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. For there be few friends in this ruthless world. (Exit.) SHEPHERD. Tis pitiful we've lost our own good lord. But Halbert Comyne has the look wins hearts : And he is gentle as the sleeping sea, Meek as a May-morn 'fore the lark is up ; He'll make a right good master. How do sheep Sell in Lochmaben market ? does the black And brocket breed excel the silk-fleeced brood Of the auld stock o' Tinwald ? GRAEME. The auld stock Of Tinwald-top for me ! But, Halbert Comyne Why he's a thing worth worshipping, old man ; It breaks his heart to heir his kinsman's land : He'd rather heir a dukedom. How he sighs, Curses all sharp-edged swords, and vows henceforth To deal in nought but daggers. SHEPHERD. 'Faith! we're blest, For he's a rare sweet gentleman. How now Goes on the surgery of sheep with tar, Instead of spell and charm, and watching them With a peel'd wand of witch-tree ? De'il have me, If I like trusting to the wit of man. GRAEME. Why, Cromwell and the troops of the covenant Are coming soon to empty your sheep-folds ; What charms can save your sheep from soldiers' teeth, I'd have you put in practice. Touching now Sc. 4. SIR M ARM ADUKE MAXWELL. 85 Sir Marmaduke, the peevish stripling he Play'd on the lute : 'twas deadly sin ! and sang Songs praising black-eyed girls 'twas treasonable ! And our good lord I'll paint no farther : soon May the Eternal loose my sword, and set Free my right hand. (Aside.) This secret, on my soul Sinks like a mill-stone ; my heart says to me, ' Go, shout out the stern truth." MACGEE. Farewell, farewell, My well-going plough I sang so oft beside ; My bonnie grays which drew so fair a furrow ; The joy to see the green corn blade arise Which I had sown the gray lark sang to see it ; The holy joy that silent Sabbath brings, When nought is heard, save the far-sounding psalm, And sweet bells knelling kirkward. Oh ! my lord. GRAEME. Let not thy wrath draw an unfated sword The hour is coming, and the right hand's ready That shall avenge this deed. Make it a warning, Even from Caerlaverock to the uttermost earth. We'll spill his guilt-cup when it tops the brim, And give him to perdition. MACGEE. Be it soon! For, Simon Graeme, why should we stand and see The murderer wipe his bloody sword, and smile, Nor smite him to the dust, in hope that heaven Will call, in thunder, " Strike ! " Oh ! Simon Graeme, 86 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Men may mistake the stars the signs above Are hard to understand, and all men read them Even as their own wills list. GRAEME. Thou say 'st the truth ; Yetthou but echoest me. Go, seek to stay The rushing of that river ; keep the sea From leaping on the land curb in yon sun From his bright journey ; and say to the wind, Awake thou when I list. Lo ! they run all Their destined courses ; and, they stay, but not For mortal bidding all the might of man : Man, glorious man, who wears gold on his brow, And steel in his right hand, can mock at them, Not stay them. What is will'd will surely be ; God walks his way in silence, till his hour, And then men hearken thunder. So, my friend, Keep thy voice silent, and thy good sword ready Ere three days pass, such tidings will be heard As ne'er were heard in Nithsdale. (Exeunt .) SCENE V. Coast of Galloway. Enter LADY MAXWELL, and Page. LADY MAXWELL. Woe ! nothing but woe ! I saw the blood-blades bare, And my lord's head smote i' the dust. Had I Clasp'd him unto my bosom, and look'd up Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 87 And to their swords exposed my tender body, And, my voice melting ripe with woe, implored Mercy one moment, it had been in vain. You winged ones, who wear the swords which shape God's retribution out you holy spirits, Who fly to the uttermost earth to shield good men When murder's blade is bare ; Oh! where were ye? God's wrath burns not 'gainst murder, as the creed For some wise purpose words it. The full moon, Yea, and the tender stars, look'd on, and smiled, While my lord's life-blood cried from earth, above The cherubim's abodes. PAGE. Here come two men ; Shepherds they seem ; but let us hear them speak ; They may wear steel plates under their gray weeds. Men are not what they seem. (Exeunt,) Enter SHEPHERDS. FIRST SHEPHERD. Now, peace be here ! A floor of scented cedar ! I say, give her A floor of clay, and lay green rushes on it. SECOND SHEPHERD. Floors of fine cedar ! give her a tarr'd stick, And a teat of tarry wool. She kens far more Of smearing sheep, and clipping sheep, than dwelling On bonnie boarded floors. FIRST SHEPHERD. Sad tidings, man ! Sad tidings, man the douce dame of the glen, 88 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Douce Mabel Moran lies at the last gasp. Lang John Dargavel saw her wraith yestreen Come like a gray mist round the hip o' the hill. SECOND SHEPHERD. We'll have a sample of sleety weather soon, Rots and elf-arrows ; Mabel will be miss'd. FIRST SHEPHERD. Speak low speak low it's barely safe to talk O' Mabel's gifts ; gifts did I call them ? Gifts, From the foul creature that divides the hoof, And yet's not eatable. Dying did I say ? None born will brag they carried her feet foremost : Many a fair form she's stretch'd on their last cloth, And mickle burial wine she's drank but she Lives on, and will. I heard John Cameron say, That sinful Mabel would leave this sad world With a wild sugh no coffin, and no shroud. SECOND SHEPHERD. Prodigious, man ! but that is horrid. FIRST SHEPHERD. Now Last night, our Jean, a fearless lassie, went To watch old Mabel through the night. The dame Said, Wait not with me, sweet maid, in this desart, A fair form from the east will ere day dawn Come here, and comfort me. SECOND SHEPHERD. O fearful be't : A fair form, from the east prodigious, man ! But that is horrid. Satan, I dread thy wiles Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 89 Satan, they say, among the maidens, comes Like a fair youth that plays on pipe and tabor, And sings most graceless pleasant ballads Re-enter LADY MAXWELL and Page. Now God be near us ; here is the fair form Come from the east too wait on her yeresell ; I'm but the new-come shepherd, and shall e'en Climb Criffel like a deer. FIRST SHEPHERD. Gomeral and gowk! Run, and she'll turn thee to a fox, and turn Herself into a hound, and hunt ye round From Burnswark to Barnhourie. Gracious me ! She's cross'd the salt sea in a cockle shell, A cast of slipper, or flown o'er the foam O' the Solway, like a sheldrake. LADY MAXWELL. Youth, return ; T know one of these shepherds well ; he'll lead me To where the good dame lives. Take thou this token To my fair son. It was his father's gift Upon our bridal day. Say that I spake not ; But press'd it to my breast, as I do now, And rain'd it o'er with tears. (Exit Page.) FIRST SHEPHERD. This is a dame From the Caerlaverock side, far kenn'd and noted; She sits by Solway, and says " e'en be 't sae ; " And straight the waters roar, and duck the ships Like waterfowl. 'Faith, we must speak her fair. 90 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. SECOND SHEPHERD. ! soft and fair ; O ! Saunders, soft and fair : Who would take that sweet lady for a dame That deals with devils? Sin has a lovely look. FIRST SHEPHERD. (To Lady Maxwell.) This is a bonnie morning, but the dew Lies thick and cold ; and there are kindlier things To gaze on than the deep green sea. So come With me even Saunders Wilson, of Witchknowe, For I love Mabel like mine own heart's blood ; Love her and all her cummers. Come and taste The warm and kindly heart of corn and milk, Which we poor hinds call porridge. SECOND SHEPHERD. Bideye there! Ye might come home with me but three o' my cows Last week were elf-shot, and we've placed witch-tree Above our lintel, and my Elspa's famed For a looser o' witch-knots one that can stay Shrewd dames from casting cantraips. So belike, Douce dame, ye would nae venture to my home, And I can scarce advise ye. LADY MAXWELL. Willie Macbirn, Thou art a kind and honest-hearted man : 1 know who supper'd on thy curds and cream Without thy invitation. They are nigh Who scorn'd thy hollow stones and rowan wands, And, in thy cow-house, drain'd thy seven cows dry ; And 'neath the cold moon's eastern horn who coost So. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 91 A spell as thou earnest screaming to the world, To mark what death thou'lt dree. Dost thou hear that? Now shall 1 rid me of this babbling peasant. (Aside.) SECOND SHEPHERD. I hope oh ! cannie, kind and fearful woman, I hope ye joke. A stone of good fat cheese, A ham whose fat will gleam to the rannel-tree, I vow but I will send you. Death I'll dree ! My conscience ! kimmer, I should like to ken. LADY MAXWELL. Avoid the salt sea, and a bottomless boat. SECOND SHEPHERD. Good Lord ! now, Saunders Wilson, o' Witchknowe, D'ye hear her? I ne'er dred such things before. LADY MAXWELL. Dread growing hemp ; but dread it twisted more. SECOND SHEPHERD. Hemp growing and twisted ! De'il ! maun I dread that? I have been walking now these seven long years O'er a bottomless pool, on ice a sixpence thick. LADY MAXWELL. But, chief beware What sort of soul art thou ? Had I an errand on the wide salt sea, Couldst thou walk on the water? SECOND SHEPHERD. Walk on the water! Were I five ell of wind, or a willie- wagtail, Then might I swim like a sheldrake on the deep : I'll walk on 't when it's paved with solid ice, 92 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Or when the stone is bent from bank to bank, Or when the cunning house of crooked timber, Which men do call a boat, floats in the foam ; But I'm no spirit, or brownie, goblin, or wraith, Nor will-o'-wisp A de'il would do 't discreetly ; I am a sinful tender of sheep, good dame LADY MAXWELL. Meet me at midnight, when the risen moon Sits on yon hill. I'll teach thy leaden feet To tread o'er curled billows. Now, begone. SECOND SHEPHERD. Tread on the curled billows ! horrid be 't ! And amble stride-legs 'tween the foul fiend's horns ! These are sad pranks for Jenny Jink's goodman. (Exit.) LADY MAXWELL. Shepherd, thou seem'st to know me. I am one Be wise, and cease to know me ; for my name May bring thee pain and peril. FIRST SHEPHERD. Noble lady, I am but a poor man ; yet a hair of thy head I'll not see harm'd : some fearful woe, some grief Fit to make dull eyes weep, hath turn'd thee thus. O ! there are awful changes in this world ! But I ask nought ; and I can be as mute As that gray stone ; and I can draw too, lady, For thy sake, a sharp sword. Here comes the dame, Even reverend Mabel. Heaven be thy shield. (Exeunt.) Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 93 SCENE VI. A Wood on the Sea Coast. Enter LADY MAXWELL and MABEL MORAN. MABEL. Said I not soothly ? May his murderous soul Howl in the mirkest pit. Here have I sought Mine old poor refuge. Thou shalt live with me : For one kind shepherd brings me ewe-milk cheese ; Another comes with the dried flesh of lambs ; A third doth give me new baked bread, and begs A mild kind winter for his woolly flocks ; Another comes with blankets and warm rugs, Blesses himself, " Good Mabel, make my sheep, Now worth scarce thirty pence, worth fifteen shillings By the lamb fair of Lockerby ; the sum to thee Is wondrous little, but to me 'tis large." So live with me till this cloud passes by ; A golden day is coming. Here comes one, A man mark'd for the sword ; I know his errand. Enter SIR JOHN GOURLAY. SIR JOHN. This Scotch land is one desart ; barren hills Succeeding barren valleys, and the hinds v Look miserably poor. That men live here I have some doubt, for what I've seen are ghosts Soft ! here's an ancient dame of other days : 94 SIR M ARM A DUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. I'd rather cross a culverin's mouth than meet her ; She looks beyond this world. Now in my way She sets herself. There's something in her looks That pierces through me like a sharpen'd sword. MABEL. John Gourlay, what wantest thou with Halbert Co- myne? SIR JOHN. Thrice reverend dame, I come to greet Lord Comyne ; And I did think myself a stranger here, 'Tis my first foot in Scotland. MABEL. Thou dost come With golden tidings. Hearken what I say : Seek thou for Halbert Comyne one day hence, And thou wilt find him as that dust which thou Dost carry on thy shoes. All, all his days Are noted, number'd ; and the wiles of man, His might, his courage, or his cruelty, Cannot contend with God. Now go thy way. Yonder's Caerlaverock turrets, o'er the pines, And there lives Halbert Comyne. SIR JOHN. Ancient dame, I have a reverence for thy hoary locks, And crave thy blessing. Seest thou this gold merk ? MABEL. John Gourlay, curse the hour that thou earnest here, To feed Caerlaverock ravens That's thy blessing. (Exeunt.) Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 95 SCENE VII. Caerlaverock Castle. Enter HALBERT COMYNE. COMYNE. Three of these things were men whom nature made In an hour of hottest haste, that she might frame Her master-minds at leisure. Hubert Dougan, Thou art mourn'd much, keen, quick, and fiery Hubert I Yet thou wert thoughtful and thick-blooded grown, And hadst compunctious fits. 'Tis well he's gone, For he had proud stuff in him ; his sharp looks Had more of equal in them than I wish'd : And he was fickle as an April morn ; As changeable as a maiden in her teens ; And dangerous as a drawn dagger placed In a moody madman's hand. SERVANT. (Entering.) Please you, my lord, A messenger all reeking in hot haste, A messenger with gold spurs on his heels, From plume to spur all soil'd with desperate travel, Is come with princely greetings for your ear. COMYNE. Go, guide him here. This world, this little world Is given me now, to god me, or undo me ; And I have won it the way makes angels weep. Yet I'm no murderer with a marble heart, A scorner of grave maxims and sage saws, 96 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. Who seeks to win this world and lose the next, And casts away the hope to sit and harp By the hip of douce King David. There's a time My heart will cease to crow to mount my steed, My brow will weary of its golden weight ; I'll cast my cuirass and my sword aside, And kneel and vow that I am grown God's soldier. And then will come our mantled presbyters, And groan some sage saint-saying 'bout repentance, * And rank me with the elect, while some sweet maid Will lay her white hand on mine old bald head, And vow that I look wondrous at fourscore. Enter SIR JOHN GOURLAY. SIR JOHN. Hear, Noble Sir ! my Lord Protector greets you Lord Warden of the Marches ; and this letter Reveals his wishes farther. COMYNE. What is this? (Reads.) " From Richard Cromwell, Lord Protector, greeting." (Aside.) How in the name of the fiend climb'd this soft boy To an eagle's perch like this ? Thou unfledged thing, To dare to mount December's darkest storm, On wings too weak for summer. Thou, Protector ! Thou beardless school-boy, with a sword of straw, And crown of new-pull'd rushes ! Let me see : " To our right trusty cousin, Halbert Comyne Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 97 We greet you Warden of the Scottish March; And of our troops from Tweed unto the Forth We make you sole commander." This sounds well. Now, what's your name ? I'm sure I've seen your face, And in a perilous place too. SIR JOHN. Of small note Is my poor name John Gourlay, of Giltford. COMYNE. What ! Sir John Gourlay, who on Marston Moor Soil'd the gilt coats of the gay cavaliers ? Sir John, thou'lt bear my standard, with a hand Steeve as the temper'd steel. Now speed and spur, Muster our troops, and rouse our rude dull rustics, For arm'd rebellion halloos in the wind : Monk sits in moody meditation here ; And cavaliers have put their feet in the stirrups, And pluck'd their pennons up. SIR JOHN. Now, noble general, I crave small thanks for telling a strange tale. As I spurr'd past where yon rough oakwood climbs The river-margin, I met something there A form so old, so wretched, and so wither'd, I scarce may call it woman ; loose her dress As the wind had been her handmaid, and she lean'd Upon a crooked crutch. When she saw me, She yell'd, and strode into my path; my steed Shook, and stood still, and gazed with me upon her : She smiled on me, as the devil does on the damn'd ; 98 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. A smile that would turn the stem stroke of my sword Into a feather's touch. I smoothed my speech Down from the martial to the shepherd's tone, And stoop'd my basnet to my saddle bow, And ask'd for the castle of my good Lord Corny ne ; Her eye glanced ghastly on me and I saw Beneath its sooty fringe the glimmering fire : " Go seek thou Halbert Comyne one day hence, Thou'lt find him even as the dust which thou Dost carry on thy shoes. His days and hours Are number'd. Can the might and pride of man O'ercome the doom of God?" I ask'd her blessing : She smiled in devilish joy, and gave me quick To feed Caerlaverock ravens. COMYNE. So that's all : For one poor plack she'd dream thee a rare dream ; And crown thee Lord Protector, for the half Of a crook'd sixpence. These are old wild dames* Who sell the sweet winds of the south to sailors ; Who milk the cows in Araby, and suck The swans' eggs of the Tigris : they can turn Their wooden slipper to a gilded barge ; Their pikestaff to a winged steed, that flies As far as earth grows grass. They cast their spells On green hot youths, and make the fond brides mourn. I give them garments which the moths have bored, And mouldy cheese and so keep my good name, And my hens on my hen-roosts. (Exeunt.) Act 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 99 ACT IV. SCENE I. Cumlongan Castle. Enter MARY DOUGLAS and MAY MORISON. MAY MORISON. This griefs a most seducing thing all ladies, Who wish to be most gallantly wooed, must sit And sigh to the starlight on the turret top, Saunter by waterfalls, and court the moon For a goodly gift of paleness. Faith ! I'll cast My trick of laughing to the priest, and wooe Man, tender man, by sighing. MARY DOUGLAS. The ash bough Shall drop with honey, and the leaf of the linn Shall cease its shaking, when that merry eye Knows what a tear-drop means. Be mute ! be mute ! MAY MORISON. When gallant knights shall scale a dizzy wall For the love of a laughing lady, I shall know What sighs will bring i' the market. (Sings.) If love for love it mayna be, At least be pity to me shown: A thought ungentle canna be The thought <>' Mary Morison ii 2 100 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. MARY DOUGLAS. No tidings of thee yet my love, my love ! Didst thou but live as thou earnest yesternight In vision'd beauty to my side, 'twere worth The world from east to west. MAY MORISON. O lady ! lady! This grief becomes you rarely ; 'tis a dress That costs at most a tear o' the eye the sweetest Handmaid that beauty has. How thou wouldst weep To see some fair knight, on whose helmet bright A score of dames stuck favours see him leave His barb'd steed standing in the wood, to preach Thee out of thy virgin purgatory, to taste The joys of wedded heaven. (A knock heard at the gate.) MARY DOUGLAS. See who this is That knocks so loud and late. (Exit May Morison.) Ye crowded stars, Shine you on one so wretched as I am ? You have your times of darkness, but the cloud Doth pass away; and you shine forth again With an increase of loveliness from me This cloud can never pass. So now, farewell, Ye twilight watchings on the castle top For him, who made my glad heart leap and bound From my bosom to my lip. Sc. I. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 101 Enter HALBERT COMYNE. COMYNE. Now, beauteous lady, Joy to your meditations : your thoughts hallow Whate'er they touch ; and aught you think on's blest. MARY DOUGLAS. I think on thee, but thou'rt not therefore bless'd. What must I thank for this unwish'd-for honour ? COMYNE. Thyself thank, gentle one : thou art the cause Why I have broken slumbers and sad dreams, Why I forget high purposes, and talk Of nought but cherry lips. MARY DOUGLAS. Now were you, sir, Some unsunn'd stripling, you might quote to me These cast-off saws of shepherds. COMYN E. The war trump Less charms my spirit than the sheep-boy's whistle. My barbed steed stamps in his stall, and neighs For lack of his arm'd rider. Once I dream'd Of spurring battle steeds, of carving down Spain's proudest crests to curious relics ; and I cleft in midnight vision the gold helm Of the proud Prince of Parma. MARY DOUGLAS. Thanks, my lord; You are blest in dreams, and a most pretty teller Of tricks in sleep and so your dream is told : Then, my fair sir, good night. COMYNE. You are too proud, 102 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. Too proud, fair lady ; yet your pride becomes you ; Your eyes lend you divinity. Unversed Am I in love's soft silken words unversed In the cunning way to win a gentle heart. When my heart heaves as if 't would crack my corslet, I'm tongue-tied with emotion, and I lose Her that I love, for lack of honey 'd words. MARY DOUGLAS. Go, school that frank simplicity of thine : Learn to speak falsely in love's gilded terms ; Go, learn to sugar o'er a hollow heart ; And learn to shower tears, as the winter cloud, Bright, but all frozen ; make thy rotten vows Smell like the rose of July. Go, my lord ; Thou art too good for this world. COMYNE. My fair lady, Cease with this bitter but most pleasant scoffing ; For I am come upon a gentle suit, Which I can ill find terms for. MARY DOUGLAS. Name it not. Think it is granted ; go now. Now farewell : I'm sad, am sick a fearful faintness comes With a rush upon my heart ; so now, farewell. COMYNE. Lo ! how the lilies chace the ruddy rose What a small waist is this ! MARY DOUGLAS. That hand ! That hand! There's red blood on that right hand, and that brow : Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 103 There's motion in my father's statue ; see, Doth it not draw the sword ? Unhand me, sir. COMYNE. Thou dost act to the life ; but scare not me With vision'd blood-drops, and with marble swords ; I'm too firm stuff, thou'lt find, to start at shadows. MARY DOUGLAS. Now were thy lips with eloquence to drop, As July's wind with balm ; wert thou to vow Till all the saints grew pale ; kneel in the ground Till the green grass grew about thee ; had thy brow The crowned honour of the world upon it ; I'd scorn thee spurn thee. COMYNE. Lady, scorn not me. Oh ! what a proud thing is a woman, when She has red in her cheek. Lady, when I kneel down, And court the bridal gift of that white hand Thou wavest so disdainfully, why then I give thee leave to scorn me. I have hope To climb a nobler, and as fair a tree, And pull far richer fruit. So scorn not me : I dream of no such honour as thou dread'st. MARY DOUGLAS. And what darest thou to dream of? COMYNE. Of thee, lady. Of winning thy love on some bloom'd violet bank, When nought shines save the moon, and where no proud Priest dares be present : lady, that's my dream. 104 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4 MARY DOUGLAS. Let it be still a dream, then ; lest t beg From heaven five minutes' manhood, to make thee Dream it when thou art dust. COMYNE. Why, thou heroine, Thou piece o' the rarest metal e'er nature stamp'd Her chosen spirits from, now I do love thee, Do love thee much for this ; I love thee more Than loves a soldier the grim looks of war, As he wipes his bloody brow. Enter SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL, unseen. SIR MARMADUKE. (Aside.) What! what is this? She whom I love best he whom I hate worst ! Is this an airy pageant of the fiends? MARY DOUGLAS. (Aside.) Down ! down ! ye proud drops of my bosom, be To my dull brain obedient. (To Comyne.) My good lord, Much gladness may this merry mood of yours With a poor maiden bring you. I thank you much For lending one dull hour of evening wings To fly away so joyous. SIR MARMADUKE. (Aside.) Mine ears have Turn'd traitors to my love ; else they receive A sound more dread than doomsday. Oh ! thou false- Thou did'st seem purer than the undropt dew, Chaste as the unsunn'd snow-drops' buds disclosed Unto the frosty stars ; and truer far Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. IQi Than blossom to the summer, or than light Unto the morning. And dost thou smile too, And smile on him so lovingly ? bow too That brow of alabaster ? Woman woman ! COMYNE. O ! for a month of such sweet gentle chiding, From such ripe tempting. lips ! Now, fair young lady, As those two bright eyes love the light, and love To see proud man adore them, cast not off For his rough manner, and his unpruned speech, A man who loves you. Gentle one, we'll live As pair'd doves do among the balmy boughs. SIR MARMADUKE. (Aside.) Painted perdition, dost thou smile at this ? MARY DOUGLAS. This is a theme I love so well, I wish For God's good day-light to it ; so farewell. COMYNE. An hour aneath the new risen moon to wooe, Is worth a summer of sunshine : a fair maid Once told me this ; and lest I should forget it, Kiss'd me, and told it twice. SIR MARMADUKE. (Aside.) Dare but to touch Her little finger, faithless as she is ; Yea, or her garment's hem My father's sword, Thou hadst thy temper for a nobler purpose ; So keep thy sheath : for did I smite him now, Why men would say, that for a father's blood 106 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. Mine slept like water 'neath the winter ice ; But when a weak sweet woman chafed my mood, And made sport of her vows, then my blood rose, And with my spirit burning on my brow I sprang with my blade to his bosom. So then, sleep Fast in thy sheath. Before that lovely face, Those lips I've kiss'd so fondly, and that neck Round which mine arms have hung, I could not strike As the son of my father should. MARY DOUGLAS. Now, fair good night, To thee, most courteous sir. I seek the chace From dark Cumlongan to green Burnswark top, With hawk and hound, before to-morrow's sun Has kiss'd the silver dew. So be not found By me alone beneath the greenwood bough ; Lest I should wooe thee as the bold dame did The sire of good King Robert. (Exit.) COMYNE. Gentle dreams. To thee, thou sweet one ! Gladly would I quote The say of an old shepherd : mayst thou dream Of linking me within thy lily arms ; And leave my wit, sweet lady, to unravel it. (Exit.) SIR MARMADUKE. And now there's nought for me in this wide world That's worth the wishing for. For thee, false one, The burning hell of an inconstant mind Is curse enough ; and so we part in peace. And now for THEE I name thee not; thy name, Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 107 Save for thy doom, shall never pass my lips Depart untouch'd : there's something in this place Which the stern temper that doth spill men's blood Is soften'd by. We're doom'd once more to meet And never part in life. (Exit.) SCENE II. Caerlaverock Castle. Enter HALBERT COMYNE and SIR JOHN GOURLAY. COMYNE. And so the English cuirassiers are come With Sir John Rashgill's spears ? SIR JOHN. Not all, my lord : Seven were left praying by the river side, For it to stay like Jordan : and they'll pray, For the cursed stream keeps running. And ten more Sat singing " Stroudwater," by a living brook, To the hundred and nineteenth psalm. COMYNE. No more, I say j These men pray not more fervent than they fight. Now, good Sir John, I have a gentle deed For thee to do ; nay, nay, 'tis no dirk work. I'd have thee wear the sweet look of sixteen, When it ventures first 'mongst maidens. SIR JOHN. Sword or speech, My lord, are ready ; I can work with both, But brief most wond'rous brief. 108 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. COMYNE. The bravest men Are oft the briefest thou mayst be as brief As a bride's prayer 'neath the blanket. But, Sir John, She has a marvellous soft and winning way, A sovereignty in her look, which melts Flint hearts as wax ; she eloquently moves Hands of surpassing whiteness ; and her tongue 'Twixt her lip-rubies is a thing can charm The raven's voice to sing. SIR JOHN. 'Tis rarely painted. Is she some mermaid of the flood, my lord, That I must find to charm ye ? you've described A thing too hard to catch. COMYNE. She is no maid Of the salt flood but she's the sweetest maid On the green earth. In yon high turret, see, O'er which the twin bright stars are travelling, where The casements gleam so gallantly, she dwells. Here glows the red wine, ready for her lips : Here is a soft couch for her gentle limbs ; This arm shall be her pillow ; and what more Can a good soldier offer, kind Sir John ? SIR JOHN. She'll ask me for some token, good my lord, " ,-' : Some antique ring, some rare and costly gem, A dirty stone set deep in dirty gold ; Or she may have a love for bonnet pieces, Sc. 3. SIR MA RMADUKE MAXWELL. 109 The coin o' her native country. Is she soft, And will listen to sweet speech ? COMYNE. Stay! take this ring ; And, for thy pains, take thou this purse of gold.. Nay, linger not to reckon it ; begone ! (Exit Sir John.) This fellow has his price. I love him for 't ; He does the deed, and is paid. But he that doth His right hand wash in my foe's heart, for love Of shining with my rising, puts a bitt Between my lips, and follows all my steps With the halloo of hell. (Exit.) SCENE III. Cumlongan Castle. Enter MARY DOUGLAS and MAY MORISON. MARY DOUGLAS. Bring me my page's mantle and plumed bonnet, My little dagger with a 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) O ! Mary, at thy window be, This is the wish'd, the trysted hour. (Exit.) 110 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. MARY DOUGLAS. A strange bold courage buoys my spirit up. Yestre'en 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 (Re-entering, sings'). Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its whig : I sat, but neither heard nor saw. (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.) I sigh'd and said, among them a' Ye are nae Mary Morison. }} !.! ^uihiu?/ 9di rffMixjiM . . .v . . ;-