Jean (laughing). Yes, just to see how horrible they are.
[They go on towards the gate.
II
The Scottish Gate, Carlisle. Among the crowd.
Mary. O why did we come here?
Jean.
One, two, three, four—
A devil's dozen of them at the least.
Katrina.
Poor lads! They did not need to set them up
So high, surely. Which is the one you'ld call
Prettiest, Jean?
Jean.
That fellow with the sneer;
The axe's weight could not ruffle his brow,—
How signed it is with scorn!
Katrina.
Ah yes, he's dark
And you are red: Mary and I will choose
Some golden fellow. Which do you think, Mary?
Jean.
O, but mine is the one! Look—do you see?—
He must have put his curls away from the axe;
Or did they part themselves when he knelt down,
And let the stroke have his nape white and bare?
O could a girl not nestle snug and happy
Against a neck, with such hair covering her!