Chapter IV: Part 4

The castle menials hear in bed Their master's foot-fall overhead-- All in the silent midnight hour, All under unrest's chafing power, On and on upon the floor, On and on both back and fore-- Bereaved, betrayed, disgraced, forlorn, His brain on fire, his bosom torn By fancy's images--sad lumber Of man's proud spirit--care and cumber Waxing brighter as they keep From the vexed soul the frightened sleep.

III.

By balustrade and corridor That lead him to his lady's bower, He stands before that crape-draped frame-- Its hidden face of _beauteous_ shame-- And holds aloft in his shaking hand The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand The fierce desire to feed his eye With that fair-painted treachery. He lifts the crape, he peers below-- The fire of wrath upon his brow; He lets it fall--he lifts again, To feed on the _pleasure_ of his _pain_, And gazes without stint or measure To gloat on the _pain_ that is his _pleasure_; He turns the picture upon its face, And reads _the curse of his broken peace_. He turns the picture round again, Then away to toss in his bed of pain.

IV.

Some moral thrusts can stab the heart, And love bestowed returned in hate May play with some a deadlier part Than strokes that seem of sterner fate. In yonder vault down by the aisle Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name-- His death the sequel of the tale Inscribed upon that pictured frame. Yet not forgot while rustic swain Atunes his throat to melodie, And warbles forth the soft refrain, "Alace! alace I for Dowielee."

V.

Her father dead, Burde Olive fair-- Her mother's image--grows apace, And oft she throws in pensive care A glance upon that crape-veiled face: She wonders what may be beneath. But fears to lift the veil to know; Her father with his latest breath Forbade it, on the pain of woe, Till she to eighteen years had grown, With woman's wisdom duly fraught, When she might take that picture down And learn the lesson which it taught. Yet as she sat within the bower That bore a mother's sacred name, She felt the heart's divining power And guessed the face within the frame-- Her mother's! who they said was dead: And hence the crape--appropriate sign. But why debarred the simple meed To look upon her face divine, And as she looked revive again Those lines that had been once impressed By love upon her infant brain, And never thence to be defaced? Not ever fairest painted theme, Or triumph of the graver's art, Could match the image of her dream Enshrined within a daughter's heart-- So gently kind, so sweetly fair: They were the features she assigned To creatures of yon upper air When they look down on humankind: And oft she sighed that morn would shine When that dark crape she could remove, And she would feast those eydent eyne On those that taught her first to love; And oft she scanned her own sweet face, Reflected to her anxious view, To see if therein she could trace Those lineaments--the _first_ she knew.

VI.

On Time's swift wing the years have passed: The morn has come, the hour is now, When she would feast her heart at last By looking on that sacred brow! She took the picture from the nail, She held it in her trembling hands, She lifted up the envious veil,-- And there confessed the mother stands. The charm is wrought! that painted gleam Brought up the lines impressed of yore, As flash of the bright morning beam On twilight things seen long before. Her mother seemed from death returned; She kissed the lips, the cheeks, the chin; She sobbed, she sighed, she laughed--she mourned To think it was a painted sign; And then at last she turned it round, As if she feared her sire's decree, And there, in written words, she found The dreaded curse of Dowielee:

THE CURSE.

"Than Olive who more beautiful In all that nature could bestow? Than Olive who more dutiful When first she pledged that holy vow? What is she now, by sin entoiled? Dark spirits of yon woods declare, Where I in anguish wander wild, The victim of a dark despair.

"Thank Heaven, I leave no son my heir, Who might another Olive see, And think her as his mother fair-- Fair, but yet a mystery-- With heart so like some alcove deep, Where nightingales may sing their song, And roses blow, and--serpents creep, To sting him as I have been stung.

"The secrets of the living rock, Deep hid from man's divining rod, A spark may open, and the shock Bring forth an ingot or a toad: The secret that is kept for years, One stroke of fate yields to the sight; And if the toad a jewel wears, That jewel may have lost its light.

"Begone ye hopes of tender ties, Of smiling home with wife and child, Of all love's tender sympathies, That once a rugged soul beguiled! In vain may Beauty deck her crown, And winning Goodness try her plan, I trust no more--the guile of ONE Hath changed me to a savage man.

"If in this world I smile again, Twill be to see the charming eye Like _hers_--the smile--each effort plain, And think I can them all defy. You tell me these are Nature's ways, But Nature tells me to beware; And while each angler smiling plays, So shall I play to shun the snare.

"Mocked by the glamour of the eye, I dread all things surpassing fair; The sweetest flower but makes me sigh To think there may be poison there. Were I inclined to change my part, And seek again domestic peace, I'd seek for beauties in the heart, Though seen through a _revolting_ face.

"By the heart-pulses of my love, By all the things once dear to me, By every tree within the grove, By every bird upon the tree, By every tint upon its wing, By every note of melodie That close by HER I've heard it sing, _Cursed be the dame of Dowielee_."

VII.

Burde Olive sat at the evening hour Within her mother's painted bower: It was a ruthless winter night. When beasts and birds cowered with affright From brattling winds that, roving free, Moaned in the woods of Dowielee. A wanderer knelt beside her chair, And spoke these words of tearful prayer:

THE APPEAL.

"When Justice sought the skies above, She left on earth her sister, LOVE, And heaven-born MERCY staid behind On purpose to console mankind. The silly sheep that left one day The winter's beild and went astray, Did not, when weary, worn, and old, Seek all in vain the shepherd's fold! And He, the Shepherd without sin, Felt for the contrite Magdalene, And gave her hope--her sin forgiven-- That she would join the fold in heaven: And shall my Olive while on earth Forgive not her who gave her birth? Oh! turn on me a smiling face, Forgiving eyes--a look of grace."

But Olive turned her face away-- Her father's spirit whispered Nay-- His hastened death, his curse forbade: She trembled and was sore afraid; Yet father's daughter, meek and mild, Was she not, too, the mother's child?

Then _he_ was gone, and _she_ was here: Her eye acknowledges the tear Of brooding nature all confessed-- She falls upon the wanderer's breast! No more the veil obscures the frame-- The curse is taken from the name.

XVII.

THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION.

Maid Marion laid her down to sleep, Maid Marion could do nought but weep, For thinking of that happy time When she was in her early prime, When in her glass she looked so fair With lily-lire and golden hair.

Full many a year had rolled away, Since _he_ left her that weary day, When, poor in love and rich in gear, She cast him off without a tear; When, poor in gear, tho' rich in love, He left her o'er the sea to rove.

His ship was never heard of more, And she must now his death deplore. Now, poor in gear and rich in love, She saw him looking from above, With mild reproof in his dark eyes, And still that love she dared despise.

"Oh that that day had never been-- That I that day had never seen! Wae fa the gowd that took its flight, Wae fa' the love I feel this night, Wae fa' the pride that made me mad, And this regret that makes me sad."

And still she turned and aye she mourned, And aye the briny tear it burned: A spendthrift father in the grave, A mother buried with the lave, And he, her Willie, also gone, And she left weeping here alone.

And still she tried to fall asleep, But aye the thoughts their revels keep: Hark, "one" knurrs from the ancient clock, Long yet ere crowing of the cock-- That sound which sends to their repose The ghosts that mourn their human woes.

A faint beam from the waning moon Can scarcely more than show the gloom; All is so still and silent round, The foot of ghost might raise a sound. Hush! there's a rustling near the bed-- She heard the curtain drawn aside.

With trembling fear she turned to see Amid the gloom who there might be, And thought she yet could dimly trace The outlines of that well-known face Of him, now dead, who loved her dear, And she had scorned through pride of gear.

"Oh Marion dear!" the words came plain: "Maid Marion, dear," it said again; "Remember you of that auld time I tried sae sair thy love to win, And for that I was lowly born Thou treated my true love with scorn?"

"Ah, Willie, Willie! I do thee fear, It is thine angry ghost I hear; I saw thee looking from on high, I saw red anger in thine eye; Come thou my cruel heart to chide, Or claim me for thy heavenly bride?"

"No, Marion dear!" the shade replied, "I dinna come thy heart to chide. A spendthrift father left thee poor, But Heaven has added to my store. Thou hast been punished for thy pride, And I am come to claim my bride."

"Oh fearful shade! the cock will craw; It's mair than time thou wert awa. Gae back into the ocean deep Where thou and thy companions sleep." But still the angry spirit said, "I come to claim thee for my bride."

Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread, "I've meikle sin upon my head, And, oh! I am unfit to dee, And go to heaven thy bride to be. Leave me! oh leave me! flit away, And give me peace to weep and pray."

Now something touched Maid Marion's arm, She felt the touch both kind and warm; The spirit took her by the hand, She felt the touch both kind and bland. The spirit kissed Maid Marion's mou', Oh! how it thrilled her body through.

The spirit laughed in that odd way Which spirits do when they are gay; For there are spirits good and bad-- The good are aye a merry squad. No body-pains their hearts to vex, No worldly cares their minds perplex.

"Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear, My soul's well cased in fleshly gear; I have a heart still warm and free, Enough of gowd for thee and me; And if thou wilt give up thy scorn, Trow-la! I'll marry thee the morn."

XVIII.

THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE.

Yonder Roseallan's Castle old!
Which time has changed to iron grey,
Whose high crenelles, o'ergrown with mould,
Are crumbling silently away.
Soft comes the thought that, years before,
Now hid by time's obscuring pall,
Some tiny foot had tript the floor,
Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years--
It seems to me an age of dreams--
My grandam filled my itching ears
With all Roseallan's storied themes:
Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved
The last of all Roseallan's maids;
And how in moonlight nights they roved
Among Roseallan's sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes,
Deep set in visage pale and wan,
Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize,
Sir Baldwin should not be the man.
He took his aim--too deadly straight,
Yet not unseen by Annabel,
Who sprang before her favoured knight,
And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died
Was last of all her honoured name,
The only hope that fate supplied
To keep alive her house's fame.
And then the screeching bird of night
Would mope upon the crumbling walls,
And chirking whutthroats claim the right
To gambol in the ancient halls.

In yonder vault, deep down below,
Half choked with hoary eglantine,
Sleep side by side in lengthened row
The proud Roseallan's noble line.
The hairy wing-mouse flutters there,
The owl mopes as in days of yore,
Strange eldritch sounds salute the ear,
Unholy things crawl on the floor.

How oft alone at midnight hour
I stand within that silent tomb,
What time the moon with waning power
Is struggling through increasing gloom,
On one sole bier _his_ tears would fall,
For _her_ his groans come evermore,
Whose silver voice once filled the hall,
Whose feet once lightly tript the floor.

XIX.

THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY.

In the castle of Kildrennie,
Up in her chamber high,
There sat the fair Burde Annie,
And with her County Guy--
Come lately from the east,
As far as Palestine,
Where he had sent to his long rest
Many a bold Saracen.

Sir Guy his burning love hath told,
And a favour he hath won,
For lo! a ring of virgin gold
Shines there his finger on.
And they have pledged the solemn yea,
Each on the bended knee,
That on the coming Beltane day
They two shall wedded be.

Burde Annie viewed, to hide her tears,
The red sun setting still,
And lo! behold two cavaliers
Came riding up the hill:
The one he was Sir Hudibras
Come of a noble clan;
The other no less noble was--
The brave Sir Gallachan.

The first bore on his shield outspread
Two bones in cross moline,
And for his crest ane bluidy head,
Erased from Saracen.
The other carried, nobler far,
All in a field of gold,
A flaming bolt of Jupiter,
For crest ane tiger bold.

And up they rode, and up they rode,
Till they came to the lawn
Which spread before the castle broad,
And there they made a stand;
And there they spied Burde Annie
Up in her chamber high,
But for the breadth of her bodie
They could not see Sir Guy.

Burde Annie waved her lily hand,
And threw a kiss a-down--
For Hudibras or Gallachan
Was meant the priceless boon?
For sure it was a priceless boon,
When neither could espy
That when she threw that kiss a-down
She winkit to Sir Guy.

"That kiss divine, I trow, is mine,"
Cried doughty Hudibras;
"I am the man," cried Gallachan,
"And sure thou art ane ass."
Such words to hear were ill to bear
By any valiant knight;
And each drew forth his sword o' weir,
And stood prepared for fight.

They startit, they partit,
Then on each other sprang;
They lungit, they plungit,
Till all the welkin rang.
They ogglit, they gogglit,
Amidst the dread deray;
They chirnit, they girnit,
Like bluidy beasts of prey.

They rattlit, they brattlit,
Each cuirass upon;
They hackit, they thwackit,
Each other's morion.
They reel it, they wheelit,
And quick came round again;
They burstit, they thrust it,
With all their might and main.

They smeekit, they reek it,
Like to ane smouldering kiln;
They peghit, they sighit,
Each other's blood to spill,
They trampit, they stampit,
Like animals run wud;
They flarit, they glarit,
With eyne yred with bluid.

At length, to end the bluidy deeds,
They raised their falchions keen,
And down upon each other's heads
They clove them to the chin.
But 'tis not true, as I've heard tell,
And I do not believe
That when these doughty lovers fell,
_One laughed within her sleeve_.

But I have also heard it said,
And I again it say,
And I would like to see the head
With tongue in't to say nay--
That as these pates lay on the ground
(As there they yet may lie),
_One eye in each cloved head was found
Fixed on that chamber high_.

XX.

THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL.

Come Mary and Martha, Jeanie and Jenny, And sit down and listen, baith ane and a', To me, wha may very weel be your grannie, And aiblins may ken ae thing or twa.

This world is no so sweet and so bonnie As you in your young hearts may suppose; There's aloes in it as weel as honey, And aye some prickles on ilka rose.

Young lasses I think are something like fillies Let out in a field to idle and eat, To graze by the gowans and drink by the willows, And never to dream of a bridle _a bit_.

It's no what ye eat, it's no what you drink, dears, It's no your bonnets, or ribbons, or skirts, The trinkets ye wear, or the siller ye clink, dears-- There's something, I wean, far nearer your hearts.

Your thoughts are mair of him you will marry, What the colour may be of his hair, Whether aye cheery, or sometimes chary, What his complexion, or dark or fair.

But men they are gude, and men they are ill, dears, You may get the leal or the lazy loon; A lover is aft like a gilded pill, dears, The bitter comes after it's gulpèd doon.

I fear ye hae little of power to choose him, The husband is settled for you abune; But you've power in holy bands to noose him _Before ye let him tak' aff his shune_.

For a maid who is silly and stoops to folly, And finds ower late that she is betrayed, I ken nae cure for her melancholy But a coffin--and let it be quickly made.

A braw lover cam' to my minnie's shieling When I was as young as you now may be, Sae saft, like a loon wha's bent on stealing, And he tirled and whispered secretlie.

"Oh let me in this ae night, Jenny, And I will for ever thy true love be; Oh let me in this ae night, hinny, And I will come back and marry thee!"

"Gae back and awa, for this my will is, My mither lies gleg wi' half-closed ee, And bids me beware of faithless billies, Who will steal my heart and awa frae me flee."

"For mercy's sake! this ae night, Jenny, Oh let me scoug frae the wind and rain, And holy vows I will plight thee, hinny, That thou wilt be for ever mine ain."

I opened the door so saft and sleeky, For fear my mither should hear the din, And he has ta'en aff his shune so creaky, And I've led him into my cosy ben.

Our speckled cock crew loud and early, The day was dawing o'er forest green, And I let him out as wily and warily As ever I let him in yestreen.

"Now, fare thee well, my winsome Jenny, For I am a baron of high degree; Now, fare thee well for ever, my hinny, For the wife of a baron thou ne'er canst be."

With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,[A] He stroked the red beard on his chin, With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And I have never seen him again.

[Footnote A: The reader may here recollect the fine ballad of Bürger, "Der Ritter und sein Liebchen;" and the verse--

Drauf ritt der Ritter hop sa! sa!
Und strich sein Bartchen trallala;
Sein Leibchen sah ihn reiten
Und hörte noch von weiten
Sein Lachen ha! ha! ha!
]

[The maidens thought the humour gala, And, laughing, they chorused to the strain, "With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And you have never seen him again."]

Now, dears! if your lovers you would not lose them, Tak' counsel--it is not an hour ower sune: Be sure that in holy bands ye noose them _Before you let them tak' aff their shune_.

[The maidens thought they would amuse them, And, laughing, they chorused to the tune, "Oh yes, we in holy bands will noose them _Before we let them tak' aff their shune_."]

XXI.

THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY.

"Come, now tell me, Clarabella,
How that wondrous thing befell,
Why you took that sorry fellow,
Leaving me who loved you well?
It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage,
And cost me many a pang of pain;
Indeed, when I heard of your marriage,
I vowed I ne'er would love again."

"Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic,
And so the reason you shall hear:
Th' affair was one of arithmetic--
A matter of so much a year.
His father left five thousand good
Of pounds per annum, as you know,
And you possessed, I understood,
Of yearly thousands only two."

"Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid,
Display so much stupid-ity
As not to know--the thing was lucid--
From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?"
"But not too late," cried Clarabella:
"My husband dear has gone to heaven;
He left the five to me, good fellow!
And five and two, you know, make seven."

I laughed and bowed to Clarabella,
And quickly homewards bent my way,
And there became a rustic fellow,
And donned a suit of hodden-grey.
And then I hired me to a farmer,
Concealing every sign of pelf,
One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer,
Who might love me for myself.

I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda,
And tho' she loved another swain
(I had observed them through the window),
I was resolved her love to gain
Then I would be a lucky fellow,
Assured one loved me for my merit,
And not, like widowed Clarabella,
For the lucre _I_ inherit.

At length I boldly purposed marriage,
And found Lucinda at my call,
And soon thereafter in my carriage
I drove my wife to Border Hall.
Well! she wondered at the mansion,
And all the grandeur that was there,
The servants bowing all attention
To the lady of their squire.

I had a call from Clarabella,
Who said my choice was very good;
But though her speech was calm and mellow,
I thought her in an envious mood.
Indeed I had some small suspicion
She had avenged a woman's grudge,
And had conveyed my true condition
To the ears of Farmer Hodge.

Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger,
Who knew me spite of my changed dress.
"Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager
There is a something thee doan't guess;
Lucinda's father knew by letter
Thee wert a squoire in low disguise,
And she, altho' _she loiked me better_,
Agreed to take the richer prize."

XXII.

THE SONG OF ROSALIE.

Row on! row on! to flowing Tay,
Thou Dighty, who art dear to me;
For here upon thy flowery brae
I parted last frae Rosalie.
Her hair, so rich in gowden hue,
Ilk plait was like a gowden string,
Her eyne were like the bonnie blue
That shines upon the halcyon's wing.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and silent tomb.

Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat,
Who sing'st within yon greenwood dell;
Sing on, for every trembling note
Brings back the voice I loved so well.
Thou little pansy, raise thy head,
And turn thine azure eye to me,
And so remind me of the dead,
My dearest, long lost Rosalie.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow,
That sportest in thy gamesome mood,
Play on! for thou remind'st me now
Of one as innocent and good;
All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring
Of her who loved you all to see,
When through the woods in early spring
Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie."

But there's a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Far have I roamed for years and years,
As from my thoughts I fain would stray;
But here once more I weep my tears
O'er her now mouldering in the clay.
Oh! would that happy day were come
When death shall set my spirit free,
And I shall rise to yonder home,
And be again with Rosalie,

Where is no worm to gnaw the bud,
And none to blight the youthful bloom;
Where spirits sing in joyful mood,
"Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"

XXIII.

THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY.

I.

Mournfully maundering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary, wandering, Through this world of sin, Hermit-shade! I call thee; Lead me to the valley-- That mysterious alley, Where I may creep in.

World of strange illusion! Fancy-born delusion! Reason-bred confusion! Phantasmagoria! Love, where shall I find thee? Faith, how shall I bind thee? Truth, who has defined thee? Changing every day.

Streets of hurry scurry! Fields of fire and fury! Homes of wear and worry! Passing quickly by; Pleasure a wild snatching, Dying in the catching, Pain eternal watching With relentless eye.

Sorrow, old Sin's daughter! Screams of eldritch laughter! Burning tears thereafter! I've felt the vanity; Still the hope pursuing, The pursuit ever rueing, Possession still undoing The hope's fond prophecy.

II.

Sun! I've seen thy grandeur, Scenes of gorgeous splendour, Visions passing wonder In ocean, sea, and sky; Thunders o'er us pealing, Earthquakes 'neath us reeling, Fiery comets wheeling Through all immensity.

Virtue! man has crowned thee, For beautiful he found thee; Yet millions have disowned thee, And seek dark Vice's way, Hypocrisy, deep-hooded, Injustice still obtruded, Stern Cruelty, cold-blooded, Make brother man their prey.

Kind Love's pure affection! Pity's benediction! Charity's sweet action! All blessed urbanities; Man on man still preying; Bleating lambkins slaying! Devouring blood, and saying All soft humanities.

III.

Dreaming, doubting, moping, Hopelessly still hoping, Dimly, darkly groping My being's mystery; This sobbing and this sighing, This laughing and this crying, This living and this dying-- Man's mortal history!

Why this wild contention? This mocking, cruel invention-- What the deep intention? Who shall give replies? Demons wildly sporting, God's beautiful distorting, Or His own hand extorting Sin-born penalties?

IV.

Those with whom I started Oceans wide have parted: Some are broken-hearted, Some lie in the clay; Those I once heard prattle, For whom I shook the rattle, Engaged in life's vain battle, Push me off the way.

The world's laugh it jeers me, Their looks they seem to fear me, I hear them whisper near me, "Old man, why linger here?" She who loved me dearly, Wandered with me cheerily, Is now a phantom merely, Seen through memory's tear.

Pale ghost, flitting yonder! With drooping head you wander. Deep in thought you ponder Why I stay from thee; Cease those hands to beckon, Vain, vain, may you reckon; Alas! I cannot quicken Death's desired decree.

Weary, weary wandering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary wandering Through this world of sin, None can undeceive me, None but ONE relieve me, None but ONE receive me, His peace to enter in.

XXIV.

THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.--SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick; RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc.

SCENE I.--_A Street--the Market-place_.

_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD _and_ HENRY (_his sons_), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others of the People_.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a _holy alliance_ wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he demand us to surrender!--to gie up our toun!--our property!--our lives!--our liberty!--to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen! While we breathe, we will breathe the _breath o' Freedom!_ as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned are upon anither--here!--the power to defend this market-place is mine!--and _here_ will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my side!

_Sir Alex_.--Fear not, good provost; I through life have learned To live with honour, or with honour fall.

_Richard_.--And as the father dies, so shall his sons. What sayest thou, Henry?

_Henry_.--I would say but this-- (If one with a smooth chin may have a voice)-- When thou dost nobly fall, I'll but survive To strike revenge--then follow thy example.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve.

_Hugh Elliot_.---In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles-- In every street, each corner of the town, Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard, Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother, Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by! My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; 'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch, Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound, Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls: The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!--beheld My wife's fair bosom torn--her heart laid bare! And the red stream came oozing to my feet! _Is this a time for smiles!_

_Provost Ramsay_.--Your wife! Heaven preserve us! Weel, after a', I hae reason to be thankfu' I hae neither wife nor bairns on a day like this!

_Sir Alex_.--Behold an envoy from the English camp, Sent with proposals, or some crafty truce.

_Hugh Elliot_.--Let me entreat you, then, most noble sir, Give him all courtesy; and if his terms Be such as we in honour may accept, Refuse them not by saying, WE WILL DIE.

_Enter_ EARL PERCY _and_ Attendants.

_Percy_.--Good morrow, my Scotch cousins! My gracious sovereign, your right lawful master, Hath, in his mercy, left you these conditions-- Now to throw wide your gates, and, if ye choose, Go walk into the Tweed, and drown your treason; Or run, like scapegoats, to the wilderness, Bearing your sins, and half a week's provision; Or, should these terms not meet your approbation, Ere midnight we shall send some _fleeter messengers_. So now, old Governor, my master's answer?

_Provost Ramsay_.--The mischief's in your impudence! But were I Sir Alexander, the only answer your master should hae, would be your weel-bred tongue sent back upon the end o' an arrow; an' that wad be as _fleet a messenger_, as ye talk about _fleet messengers_, as ony I ken o'.

_Percy_.--Peace, thou barbarian! keep thy frog's throat closed. I say, old greybeard, hast thou found an answer?

_Sir Alex_.--Had my Lord Percy found more fitting phrase To couch his haughty mandate, I perhaps Had found some meet reply. But as it is, Thou hast thine answer in this people's eyes.

_Hugh Elliot_.--Since we with life and honour may depart, Send not an answer that must seal our ruin, Though it be hero-like to talk of death.

[_Enter_ LADY SETON, _listening_.

Bethink thee well, Sir Governor: these men Have wives with helpless infants at their breasts; What husband, think ye, would behold a child Dashed from the bosom where his head had pillowed, That his fair wife might fill a conqueror's arms! These men have parents--feeble, helpless, old; Yea, men have daughters!--they have maids that love them-- Daughters and maidens chaste as the new moon-- Will they behold them screaming on the streets, And in the broad day be despoiled by violence? Think of _these things_, my countrymen! [_Aside to_ PERCY, Now, my Lord Percy, you may read your answer.

_Percy [aside]_.--So thou art disaffected, good Sir Orator: Well, ply thy wits, and Edward will reward thee-- Though, for my part, I'd knight thee with a halter!

_Sir Alex_.--Is this thy counsel in the hour of peril, Milk-hearted man? To thee, and all like thee, _I_ offer terms more _generous_ still than Edward's: Depart ye by the Scotch or English gate-- Both shall be opened. Lade your beasts of burden-- Take all you have--your food, your filthy gold, Your wives, your children, parents, and yourselves! Go to our Scottish king, and prate of courage! Or go to Edward--Percy will conduct thee.

[LADY SETON _advances forward_.

_Lady Seton_.--Spoke like thyself, my husband! Out on thee, slave! [_To_ ELLIOT. Or shall I call thee traitor? What didst thou, On finishing thy _funeral service_, whisper In my Lord Percy's ear?

_Elliot_.--I whisper, lady?

_Lady Seton_.--You whisper, smooth-tongued sir!

_Percy [aside]._--Zounds! by the coronet of broad Northumberland, Could I exchange it for fair England's crown, I'd have my bodyguard of woman's eyes, And make the whole sex sharpshooters!

_Provost Ramsay_.--Wae's me! friend Elliot, but you have an unco dumfoundered-like look after that speech o' yours in defence o' liberty, and infants, and fair bosoms, maiden screams, and grey hairs, and what not.

_Sir Alex_.--Percy, we hear no terms but death or liberty. This is our answer.

_Percy_.--Well, cousins, be it so. The wilful dog-- As runs the proverb. Lady, fare-ye-well. [_Exit_.

_Sir Alex_.--On with me, friends--on to the southern ramparts! There, methinks, they meditate a breach. On, Scotsmen! on-- For Freedom and for Scotland! [_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.--_Town Ramparts_.

_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, HENRY, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and_ Populace.

_Sir Alex_.--To-day, my townsmen, I shall be your leader; And though my arms may lack their wonted vigour, Here are my pledges [_pointing to his sons_] placed on either side, That seal a triumph youth could never reap. To-day, my sons, beneath a father's eye, Oh give such pride of feeling to his heart As shall outshame the ardour of his youth, And nerve his arm with power strong as his zeal!

[_Exeunt all save_ HUGH ELLIOT.

_Elliot_.--Thanks to my destiny!--the hour is come-- The wished-for hour of vengeance on mine enemy!-- Heavens! there is neither nobleness nor virtue. Nor any quality that beggars boast not, But he and his smooth sons have swallowed up; And all the world must mouth their bravery!--- I owe a debt to Scotland and to him, And I'll repay it--I'll repay it now! This letter will I shoot to Edward's camp; And now, ere midnight, I'm revenged--revenged!

[LADY SETON _appears from the window of the castle_, as ELLIOT _is fixing a letter on an arrow_.

_Lady Seton_ [_from the window_].--Hold, traitor! hold, Or, by the powers above us, this very hour Your body o'er these battlements shall hang For your fair friends to shoot at!

[ELLIOT _drops the bow_.

_Elliot_ [_aside_].--Now fleet destruction seize the lynx-eyed fiend-- Trapped in the moment that insured success! Thank fate--my dagger's left!--she has a son!

_Lady Seton_.--Go, worthless recreant, and in thickest fight Blot out thy guilty purpose: know thy life Depends on this day's daring; and its deeds And wounds alone, won in the onset's brunt, Secures my silence.

_Elliot_.--You wrong me, noble lady.

_Lady Seton_.--Away! I'll hear thee not, nor let my ears List to the accents of a traitor's tongue. [_Exit_ ELLIOT.

SCENE III.--_An Apartment in_ KING EDWARD'S _Tent._

_Enter_ EDWARD _and_ PERCY.

_Edward_.--Well, my Lord Percy, thou hast made good speed. What say these haughty burghers to our clemency?

_Percy_.--In truth, your Grace, they are right _haughty_ burghers. One wondrous civil gentleman proposed To write his answer on your servant's tongue-- Using his sword as clerks might do a quill-- Then thrust it on an arrow for a post-boy!

_Edward_.--Such service he shall meet. What said their governor?

_Percy_.--Marry! the old boy said I was no gentleman, And bade me read my answer in the eyes Of--Heaven defend me!--such a squalid crew! One looked like death run from his winding sheet; Another like an ague clothed in rags; A third had something of the human form, But every bone was cursing at its fellow. Now, though I vow that I could read my fate In every damsel's eyes that kissed a moonbeam, I've yet to learn the meaning of the words Wrote on the eyeballs of his vellum-spectres, But the old man is henpecked!

_Edward_.--Prythee, Lord Percy, lay thy fool's tongue by, And tell thy meaning plainly.

_Percy_.--Nay, pardon me, your majesty; I wot Your servant is the fool his father made him, And the most dutiful of all your subjects.

_Edward_.--We know it, Percy. But what of his wife?

_Percy_.--Why, if the men but possess half her spirit, You might besiege these walls till you have counted The grey hairs on the child that's born next June.

_Edward_.--And was this all?

_Percy_.--Nay, there was one--a smooth-tongued oily man-- A leader of the citizens; and one Who measures out dissension by the rood: He is an orator, and made a speech Against the governor: the people murmured; And one or two cried out, "Behold an Antony!" But he's a traitor; and I'd hang all traitors!

_Edward_.--Ha!--then doth the devil, Disaffection, With his fair first-born, Treason, smooth our path. So we have friends within the citadel. Sent they no other answer?

_Percy_.--I did expect me to have brought the whole, Like half-clothed beggars bending at my heels, To crave your Grace's succour; but, behold, Ere I could bid them home for a clean shirt, That they might meet your majesty like Christians, Out stepped her ladyship, and with a speech Roused up the whole to such a flood of feeling That I did well 'scape drowning in the shout Of Scotland and Seton!--Seton and Scotland!--Then did she turn and ask me, "Are you answered?" I said I was!--and they did raise a cry Of _Death or Liberty_!

_Edward_.--They shall have it--death in its fullest meaning. Haste, ply our cannon on the opening breach. Forth!--they attack the camp! Now, drive them back, Break through their gate and guards, Till all be ours! [_Exeunt_

SCENE IV.--_The Ramparts_.

_Scots driven through the gates in confusion_.

_Sir Alex_.--Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is thine. Where was the caution ye but preached this morn, That ye should madly break our little band, And rush on certain ruin? Fie on thee, man! That such an old head is so young a soldier! Here, guard this breach, defend it to the last; Henry shall be thy comrade. On, my friends! They cross the river, and the northern gate Will be their next attack.

_Elliot_ [_aside_].--"Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is thine!" So says our Governor! 'Tis true!--_'twas_ mine! Though I have failed me in my firm, fixed purpose, Once more he's thrown revenge within my grasp; And I will clutch it--clutch it firmly, too; I _guard_ the breach! and with his son to assist me! The Fates grow kind! The _breach!_ he said the _breach!_ And gave his son up to the power of Edward!

_Henry_.--Why stand ye musing there? _Here_ lies your duty!

_Elliot_ [_aside_].--'Tis true! 'tis true! _my duty_ DOES _lie there!_

_Henry_.--Follow me, Elliot. See--they scale the walls! A moment lost, and they have gained the battlement.

_Shouting_.--PERCY _and_ Followers _leap upon the battlement_.

_Percy_.--On! followers, on!--for Edward and for England!

_Henry_.--Have at thee, Percy, and thy followers, too! For Freedom and for Scotland! On, Elliot! on! Wipe out the morning's shame.

_Elliot_ [_aside_].--Have at thee, boy, for insult and revenge!

[ELLIOT _strikes_ HENRY'S _sword from his hand_.

_Henry_.--Shame on thee, traitor! are we thus betrayed?

[Percy's Followers _make_ HENRY _prisoner_.

_Elliot_.--Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!--one then is in their grasp! A truce, Lord Percy. See thy prisoner safe, Ere his mad father sound a rescue--off! Thou wouldst not draw thy sword upon a friend?

[SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, PROVOST RAMSAY, _and others, enter hurriedly_.

_Sir Alex_.--Thanks, Elliot! thanks! You have done nobly!--thanks! Where is your comrade?--speak--where is my son?

_Elliot_.--Would he had been less valiant--less brave!

_Sir Alex_.--What! is he dead, my good, my gallant boy? Where is his body? show me--where? oh, where?

_Richard_.--Where is my brother? tell me how he fell?

_Elliot_.--Could I with my best blood have saved the youth, Ye are all witnesses that I would have done it.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Indeed, Mr. Elliot, if ye refer to me, I'm witness to naething o' the kind; for it is my solemn opinion, a' the execution your sword did was as feckless as a winnle-strae.

_Sir Alex_.--Where is my poor boy's body?

_Elliot_.--I did not say he died.

_Richard_.--Not dead!

_Sir Alex_.--Not say he died?

_Elliot_.--See yonder group now hurrying to the camp, And shouting as they run. He is their prisoner! [_Aside_] Feed ye, friends, on that.

_Sir Alex_.--Cold-blooded man! them never wert a father. The tyrant is! he knows a father's heart; And he will play the butcher's part with mine! Each day inflicting on me many deaths, Knowing right well I am his twofold prisoner; For on the son's head he'll repay, with interest, The wrongs the father did him! "He is their prisoner," saidst thou?" Is their prisoner!" Thou hast no sons!--none!--I forgive thee, Elliot!

_Elliot_.--Deeply I crave your pardon, noble sir; Pity for you, and love for Scotland, made me That I was loath to speak the unwelcome tidings; Fearful that to attempt his rescue now, Had so cut off our few remaining troops, As seal immediate ruin.

_Provost Ramsay_ [_aside_].--Preserve us a'! hear that. Weel, to be sure, it's a true saying, "Satan never lets _his_ saunts be at a loss for an answer!"

SCENE V.--_Apartment in_ EDWARD'S _Tent._

_Enter_ EDWARD _and_ PERCY.

_Edward_.--How fares it with these stubborn rebels now? Do they still talk of death as of a bridal, While we protract the ceremony?

_Percy_.--I learn, my liege, we've got two glorious allies-- Two most right honourable gentlemen-- Aiding the smooth-tongued orator: _Disease_ and _Famine_ have espoused our cause, And the said traitor Elliot is their oracle.

_Edward_.--Touching this man, we have advice from him, In which he speaketh much concerns the wants And murmurings of the citizens: he, too, Adds, they hold out expecting help from Douglas, And recommendeth that we should demand The other son of Seton as a hostage, In virtue of a truce for fourteen days: This is his snare. The sons once in his power, Their father yields, or both hang up before him.

_Percy_.--'Tis monstrous generous of our friendly Scot; And what return expects he for his service?

_Edward_.--On giving up the father's head--his place.

_Percy_.--I fear the lady will have his head first. Did you but see her eyes! I'd bet my coronet 'gainst our friar's cowl, Man wink not treason in his bedchamber But she detect it. Then her ears, again; 'Sdeath! she can hear the very sound of light As it does steal, i' the morning, through her curtains. Should our _friend_ wear his head another week, His neck, I'll swear, is not as other men's are.

_Edward_.--How fares it with the son, our silent prisoner?

_Percy_.--Poor soul, he leans his head against the wall, And stands with his arms thus--across his breast-- Pale as a gravestone, gnashing at his teeth, And looking on his guards just as his mother would!

_Edward_.--'Tis now the hour that Elliot has proposed To stir the townsmen up to mutiny. Take our conditions, and _whatever_ you please; Get but the son as hostage!--get but that! And both shall die a thief's death if he yield not; He is a father, Percy--he's a father! The town is ours, and at an easy purchase. _[Exit_

_Percy_.--And she's a mother, Edward! she's a mother! Ay! and a mother; I will pledge my earldom, And be but plain Hal Percy all my life, If she despise not gallows, death, and children, And earn for thee a crown of shame, my master! In sooth, I am ashamed to draw my sword, Lest I should see my face in its bright blade; For sure my mother would not know her son, As he goes blushing on his hangman's errand.

SCENE VI.--_A Street_--_the Market-place.

Enter_ ELLIOT _and_ Populace.

_Elliot_--You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious governor Did talk to us of honour--! you all heard him! Can any of you tell us what is _honour? He_ drinks his wine, _he_ feeds on beeves and capons; _His_ table groans beneath a load of meats; _His_ hounds, _his_ hawks, are fed like Christian men! _He_ sleeps in a downy couch, o'erhung with purple; And these, all these are _honourable_ doings! He talks of _liberty_! Is it, then, _liberty_ to be cooped up Within these prison walls, to starve from want, That we may have the liberty--mark it, my friends!-- The wondrous _liberty_ to call him _Governor_? Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had, You'd to the castle, take the keys by force, And ope the gates to let your children live. Here comes your provost--now appeal to him.

_Enter_ PROVOST RAMSAY.--_The people demand bread_.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Gie you food!--your bairns dee wi' hunger!--and ye maun hae bread! It is easy saying, Gie ye! but where am I to get it? Do you think there's naebody finds the grund o' their stamachs but yersels? I'm sure I hae been blind fastin' these four-and-twenty hours! But wad ye no suffer this, and ten times mair for liberty, and for the glory and honour of auld Scotland?

_Elliot [to the people]_.--He, too, can cant of _liberty_ and _honour_!

_Provost Ramsay_.--I say, Mr. Hypocrite! it is my fixed and solemn opinion that ye are at the bottom o' this murmuring. I ken ye're never at a loss for an answer; and there is anither wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up. Do ye mind what a fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week, about getting ower the bed--and your wife's bosom being torn bare--and the blood gushing to your feet, and a' the rest o't? Do ye mind o' that, sir? Do ye mind o' that? I daresay, townsmen, ye've no forgot it? Now, sir, it's no aboon ten minutes sine, that the poor creature--wha, according to your account, was dead and buried--got loose frae her confinement, and cam fleeing to me for protection, as a man and a magistrate, to save her frae the cruelty o' you, you scoundrel. Now, what say ye to that, sir? What say ye to that? What do you think o' your orator now, friends?

_Elliot_.--'Tis false, my friends--'Tis but a wicked calumny devised Against the only man who is your friend.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Saftly, neebor, saftly! have a care how ye gie the lee to what I say; or, it is my solemn opinion, this bit sword o' my faither's may stap you frae gien it till anither.

_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER _and_ RICHARD.

Ye are weel come, Sir Alexander: here is Orator Elliot been makin' a harangue to the townsfolk; and ane cries for bread, and anither for meal--that it is my opinion I dinna ken what's to be done.

_Sir Alex_.--What would you have? what is it that you wish? Would ye, for food, sweet friends, become all slaves; And for a meal, that ye might surfeit on it, Give up your wives, your homes, and all that's dear, To the brute arms of men, who hold it virtue To heap their shame upon a fallen foe? Would ye, that ye might eat, yet not be satisfied, Pick up the scanty crumbs around their camp, After their cattle and their dogs have left them; Or would ye, for this favour, be content To take up arms against your countrymen!-- For this! will fathers fight against their sons?-- Sons 'gainst their fathers?--brethren with each other? Those who would wish it may go o'er to Edward!

_[Sound of French horns without_

_Provost Ramsay_.--Ay, here comes mair proposals--the sorry proposal them! I wish them and proposals an' a' were in the middle o' the Tweed.

_Enter_ EARL PERCY _and_ Attendants.

_Percy_.--Save ye, my band of heroes; by St. Cuthbert, Your valorous deeds have wrought a miracle, And turned my master's hatred into mercy; For, deeming it a sin that such brave fellows Should die a beggar's vulgar death from want, He doth propose to drop hostilities, And for two weeks you may command our friendship: If in that time you gain no aid from Scotland, Renounce the country, and be Edward master; But, should you gain assistance--why, then, we Will raise the siege, and wish you all good-bye.

_Elliot [to the people]_.--Urge the acceptance, friends, of these conditions.

_Omnes_.--We all accept these terms.

_Sir Alex_.--It is the people's wish; and I agree.

_Percy_.--And you, in pledge of due performance, sir, Do give up this your son into our hands, In surety for your honour------

_Sir Alex_.--What! my son! Give him up too--yield him into your power? Have ye not one already?--No! no! no! I cannot, my Lord Percy; no, I cannot Part with him too, and leave their mother childless!

_Provost Ramsay_.--Wad ye no tak me as a substitute, Lord Percy? I'm a man o' property, and chief magistrate beside; now, I should think, I'm the maist likely person.

_Percy_.--Good master magistrate and man of property, I like thy heart, but cannot take thy person. Give up the youth, or here must end my truce!

_Richard_.--Fear not, my father. I will be their hostage, For Scotland's sake, and for my father's honour--

_Sir Alex_.--My boy, my boy, and shall I lose you thus? What surety does cruel Edward give, That, keeping faith, he will restore my sons Back to my arms in safety? Tell me, Percy; Gives he his honour as a man or king?

_Percy_.--As both, I hold it.

_Sir Alex_.--And wilt thou pledge thine?

_Percy_.--This is my master's business, and not mine.

_Sir Alex_.--'Tis an evasion, and I like it not.

_Richard_.--Farewell! farewell, my father! be the first To teach these men the virtue of self-sacrifice. Commend me to my mother. I will bear Both of your best loves to our Henry. Farewell! Lead on, Lord Percy. [_Exeunt_.

SCENE VII.--_Apartment in_ SETON'S _House_.

_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others_.

_Sir Alex_.--Would Heaven that all go well with my dear boys! But there's that within me that does tear My bosom with misgivings. The very sun To me hangs out a sign of ominous gloom! A spirit seems to haunt me, and the weight Of evil undefined, and yet unknown, Doth, like a death's-hand, press upon my heart.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Hoot, I wad fain think that the warst is past, and that there is nae danger o' onything happenin' now. But do ye ken, sir, it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that, before onything really is gaun to happen to a body, or to ony o' their friends, like, there is a kind o' something comes ower ane--a sort o' sough about the heart there--an' ye dinna ken what for.

_Sir Alex_.--Have ye beheld how they are raising bastions, Flanking fresh cannon, too, in front the town, Gaining new reinforcements to their camp, And watching all our outgoings? Do you think This looks as Edward meant to keep his faith? I am betrayed, my friends--I am betrayed. Fear marcheth quickly to a father's breast-- My sons are lost! are lost!

_Provost Ramsay_.--It's true that King Edward's preparations, and his getting sic fearfu' additions to his army, doesna look weel. But what is a king but his word mair than a man?

_Enter_ Servant.

_Servant_.--Lord Percy craves an audience with your honour.

_Sir Alex_.--Conduct him hither. 'Tis as I boded!

[_Exit_ Servant--_enter_ PERCY.

You look grave, my lord.

_Percy_.--Faith, if I can look grave, to-day I should: None of my mother's children, gossips said, Were born with a sad face; but I could wish That I had never smiled, or that her maid Had been my mother, rather than that I Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings.

_Sir Alex_.--'Tis of my sons!--what! what of them, Lord Percy? What of them?

_Percy_.--Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak!-- They live--they're well!--can you be calm to hear me? I _would_ speak of your sons.

_Sir Alex_.--I feel!--I feel! I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!-- Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den, Murder its whelps, and say to it, _Be calm_! Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart! 'Twas kindly said!--kind! kind! to say, _Be calm_! I'm calm, Lord Percy! what--what of my sons?

_Percy_.--If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked-- Choked with my shame and loathing--I will tell thee! But each particular word of this black mission Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth.

_Sir Alex_.--Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst; My ears can hear--my heart can hold no more!

_Enter_ LADY SETON.