Sir Marmaduke, Maxwell, a dramatic poem

Preface

The scene of the following Dramatic Poem is laid in the beautiful but ruinous Castle of Caerlaverock, on the Scottish side of the sea of Sol way ; and the time of the story is the close of the Commonwealth under the second Cromwell. It is partly traditional and partly imaginary; and the manners, feelings, and superstitions, are those common to the Scottish peasantry.

The composition of a Drama on a classic model, and in pure and scholastic language, has not, and could not be aspired at; but sympathy is not solicited for the circumstances under which public notice is courted. We care not to know of the impediments which are in the way of those who seek to give us delight ; the vulgar wonder of a peasant writing verse has no share in the spell which is felt by the admirers of Burns. a2 iv PREFACE.

I pretend not to have courted very assiduously the unities of time,, place, and action ; nor to have wholly disregarded them. The nature of a dramatic work requires some such limitation; criticism, neglecting to define it, has left it too exclusively perhaps at the will of the poet; but an ordinary fancy will not, I hope, refuse to stretch itself over three days and nights ; nor let the little interest the story claims be dissolved like a witch's spell, because my native Nith sometimes interposes its waters between the persons of the Drama.

The day when dramatic literature threw a charm over the multitude is, perhaps, gone past. Those who frequent our theatres go less to wonder and express delight, than to criticize and find fault ; and the magnitude of our principal play-houses, meeting probably the popular taste for spectacle, — requires a play to the eye rather than to the heart. Knowledge has had its share in this downfall — superstitious beliefs and supernatural influences have vanished before instruction, and a limit has been assigned to the regions of invention. We do not feel like our ancestors the full force of that unearthly impulse which swayed Macbeth ; the call from the other world which gave resolution to Hamlet : we

PREFACE. * v

believe not in the divining-rod of Prospero — nor expect to see the shadowy succession of Banquo's royal progeny arising at the call of an old woman on the heath of Fores.

Though this Dramatic Poem is not, perhaps, unfitted for representation, yet I did not write it altogether with that view; my chief wish has been to excite interest in the reader by a natural and national presentation of action and character. That the ludicrous stands sometimes nigh the serious, and idle and capricious fancies mingle with matters of importance and gravity, is a charge which may be made, but it seems more the fault of the world than mine ; such has human nature ever appeared to me.

Of the Ballads and Songs which close the volume, it is unnecessary to say much. They are taken almost at random from a mass of verse, which the leisure or idleness of many winter evenings accumulated. Several have already been printed in various lyrical publications, others appear now for the first time. If I have allowed the former to retain all the original remissness of melody and homely simplicity of manner and expres-

a3 ri PREFACE.

sion in which they found their way to the world it was not without consideration. I owe to them some of the best friendships of my life ; and I am not certain but in their somewhat antique rudeness of manner which associates them with the elder lyrics of Scotland, lies the chief charm which they possess.

I cannot resist this opportunity of saying, that the Mermaid of Galloway has obtained some celebrity, from a painting by Mr. Hilton, R.A. in the gallery of Sir John Leicester.

London, March, 1822.

Contents

Page Preface , iii

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a Dramatic Poem 1

Ballads.

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 Clou den 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 ;

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.

B

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 w T hose hands were never wash'd From the blood of strangled babes.

Sea Spirit. Of every crime

That cries from earth to heaven, I 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 CrifTel ? Rise, ye surges, rise ! Leap from the 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 mortals- Spirit, let us work.

SCENE II. Solway Shore. Enter Mark Macgee

Macgee. 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,

Sc.2. SCR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 3

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.

( Sto rm — thunder an d fire, )

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, Hubert Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.)

Comyne. Now, Solway* let thy rudest billows dash Upon the shore five fathorn 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 1 the blast? Didst thou not see dread sights ? see horrible shapes Shake gleaming daggers at us ? All the sails Seem'd changed to shrouds ; uncoffind corses stalk'd Visibly on the deck.

Comyne. Hush, Hubert Dougan : fear,

b 2

4 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act L

Like fancy, fashion'd forth those godless shapes ; And our eyes, so imagination will'd, FilFd 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 Of darkness, I assure you. Man, hast thou Got any drink for devils ? Spare one drop.

Mac. 'Faith, thoumayst 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 gentle 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.

Corny ne. 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 sung, 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.

Comyne. Hush ; keep thy blade

With a good edge on't. We may yet find work Worth keeping a dirk to do.

Hogan. Now, by the print

O' the bless'd 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 it Caerlaverock, So then the world may credit what thou sayest.

Corny ne. Ah, Hubert ! well I know this ancient shore : Barefooted 'mongstits shells and pebbles, far IVe 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 — But this rude river, by a sudden rush, Has given a current to its marble floor Where thou may est float a barge. I know a cot, A trim and neat one, with a fire that gilds The polish' d rooftree ; 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 III. Caerlaveroch Wood

Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.

Dougan. This seems some tower o' the fancy — its foundation Flits 'fore us like a shadow.

Enter Mabel Mo ran.

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. My hoary dame,

1 do beseech thee, keep thy foot on the sod ; 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 thatblaws 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 ?

Corny ne. 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 Sol way is a sinful flood, sweet Sir;

On many a fair face has it feasted : it Has muckle dool to answer for.

Dougan. 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 ?

Mabel, 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, wf 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, WT " peace be here ; " and, " Dame, thou'rt sore

beset Wi' 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," quo' he, w There's no perfection in flesh."

Dougan. 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 Pit-falls and darkness, than the pranks of spirits :

I'd liefer sleep wi' the arch fiend at mine elbow,

Than grope my way through moss, and mire, and flood.

Hogan. IVe had enough of dismal forms aud 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

1*6 sit and sigh out prayers, and mournful psalms, Aside this beldame's hearth, with a charm'd ring Of wiseman's chalk to bound one 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 Hallowmass gossips.

Dougan. Now, my sage good dame,

We leave thy gleaming hearth to trooping spectres ; We love not to carouse with such companions, Nor 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 aim 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 Comyne, 3$c)

Mabel Moran, alone.

Thank heaven and hamely wit for this good riddance ! Now woe unto me, had I raised the latch Of my warm shealing to such unbless'd loons, 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 gold, And decent folk, will soon grow scarce, if knaves Like these long carry swords. (Exit A

SCENE IV. Caerlaverock Wood. Night

Sir Marmaduke. Maxwell., alone.

Sir M. 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 blest 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 D. 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' d ?

Sir M. 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 ; else I'll rashly deem Some blessed star my rival, and go forth And rail against its radiance.

Sc. 4. SIR 3IARMADUKE MAXWELL. 13

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 D. 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: m It is a fearful thing — war, where the odds 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 CrifTel 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 u come on ; " To see his raised arm wither strong men's strength Into the might of babes — see 'neath his steed The helms of chieftain's lie, and his course be Where steeds soon lack their riders.

Sir Marmaduke. 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, Hubert Dougan, <%c.

Dougan. 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.

Com. 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, That seem so ripe for pressing. Let me try.

Mary D. 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 ;

Those who seek fruit on a forbidden tree May break their neck i' the climbing.

Corny ne. This a churl ?

This is no peasant trimm'd for the tryste hour. {Aside.) 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.

Dougan. Away — avaunt —

Thou painted mischief — for such sweet and trim And rose and lily limmers, the bright swords Of soldiers blush'd — 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

16 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act L

Aneath the gentle moon — some such sweet time May yet o'ertake me ; I'm not one that wooes With harp in hand, and 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. How many moor flames burn'd upon the hills ; How frequent o'er their heads the night bird sung : 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 V. Caerlaverock Castle

Mark Macgee, Penpont, and Servants. Pen. 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, What sayest thou against the pastime sweet

Of lasses' lips. — Thou supperer on sorrow,

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 wilt have hot drink, Hotter than lips can cooFt ; companions too, Grim ones ; rosie dames thou'lt lack not, nor The fauns with cloven heel. There thou It 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

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 Quarrel wood-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 Wi 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 Mohan.

Mabel. Now, peace be here; Saint Allan be your watch; Say, where is Walter Maxwell ?

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 ; in my bonnet stem I wear a plant can make thy cauldron sauce As harmless as new milk. For it was thou Who sunk 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 o' her apron. And thou shook'st the Kirk O' Kirkmabreek aboon sweet Shadrach Peden, When, to the Galloway heathen, he cried, Clap The fire o' hell to their tails.

Mabel. Peace — hold thy peace —

And hold my staff till I seek Walter Maxwell.

Pen. 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.