Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 22

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 a.s.sistance--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 subst.i.tute, 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_.