_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_.
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