I
A street in Carlisle leading to the Scottish Gate. Three girls, MARY, KATRINA, and JEAN.
Katrina. What a year this has been!
Mary.
There's many a lass
Will blench to hear the date of it—Forty-five,—
Poor souls! Why will the men be fighting so,
Running away to find out death, as if
It were some tavern full of light and fiddling?
And when the doors are shut, what of the girls
Who gave themselves away, and still must live?
Are not men thoughtless?
Katrina. Leaving only kisses To be remembered by.
Jean.
That's not so bad
As when the dead lads went beyond kissing.
Mary.
Poor souls! Well, Carlisle has at least three hearts
That are not crying for a lad who's gone
Listening to the lean old Crowder, Death.
We needn't mope: and yet it's sad.
Jean.
Come on,
Why are we dawdling? All the heads are up,
Steepled on spikes above the Scottish Gate,—
Some of the rebels rarely handsome too.
Mary. Won't it be rather horrible?
Katrina. A row Of chopt-off heads sitting on spikes—ugh!
Jean. Yes, And I daresay blood dribbling here and there.
Mary.
Don't, Jean! I am going back. I was
Forbid the gate.
Katrina.
And so was I.
Jean.
And I.
Katrina. But a mere peep at them?
Jean.
Yes, come on, Mary.
Mary. We might just see how horrible they are.
Jean. Sure, they will make us shudder;
Katrina.
Or else cry.
[A MAN meets them.
Man. Are you for the show, my girls?
Jean.
We aren't your girls.
Katrina. Do you mean the heads upon the Scottish Gate?
Man. Ay, that's the show, a pretty one.
Jean. Are all The rebels' heads set up?
Man.
All, all; their cause
Is fallen flat; but go you on and see
How wonderly their proud heads are elate.
Katrina. Do any look as if they died afeared?
Man.
Go and learn that yourselves. And when you mark
How grimly addled all the daring is
Now in those brains, do as your hearts shall bid you,
And that is weep, I hope.
Mary.
O let's go back.
Jean. We have no friends spiked on the Scottish Gate.
Man.
No? Well, there's quite a quire of voices there,
Blessing the King's just wisdom for his stern
Strong policy with the rebels.
Mary. Who are those?— I think it's fiendish to have killed so many.
Man.
The chattering birds, my lass, and droning flies:
They're proper Whigs, are birds and flies,—or else
The Whigs are proper crows and carrion-bugs.
[He goes on past them.
Katrina. A Jacobite?
Jean.
That's it, I warrant you.
One of the stay-at-homes.
Mary. Now promise me, We'll only take a glimpse, girls, a short glimpse.
Jean (laughing). Yes, just to see how horrible they are.
[They go on towards the gate.