No More Learning

_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_.