_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.