Ist Scoffer. (repenting) May Heaven be merciful to the

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Ist Scoffer. (repenting) May Heaven be merciful to the Powered By Docstoc
					                    Mary Albinia Berkelely as Morgan le Fay

The vicar's daughter and authoress of the Butleigh Revel in one of her dramatic poses!




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1st Woman.               Peace be with you, holy Fathers!
2nd Woman.               Blessed be the martyred Abbot !
Scoffers.                (half-heartedly) Traitors !      Thieves !      Where is the Abbey plate !
The Men.                 (rushing forward) Shame on you to taunt dying men !
The Women.               Aye ! Shame on you to mock at the holy martyrs !
Ist Scoffer.             (repenting) May Heaven be merciful to the Lord Abbot!
An Enemy.                To your work ! Scoff at them ! Revile them ! Are you not paid ?
Scoffers                 We will not do this thing ! We will forfeit our wages !
                         (A sudden silence falls. After a moment it is broken by the Abbot.)
Whyting.                 (raising himself on one elbow) My Monks! Do I not see some of my
                         Monks in the crowd ? May I not bid them farewell ?
Monks.                   (rushing forward) Father!       Father!
                         (They are repulsed ; one manages to push through and reach the Abbot's hurdle.
                         The others stand with bowed heads and folded arms.)
Monk.                    Father Abbot, is not thy soul filled with dread at what is before thee ?
Whyting.                 It is easier to bear than the Cross, Brother !
Monk.                    Ah Father!

(He is dragged back and pushed away. The cavalcade starts forward again. The
        whole crowd, including the Scoffers, fall on their knees and remain praying till the
        procession has passed from sight. Then the Crowd rises and streams out after it,
        leaving the Monks kneeling. From the distance comes the sound of many voices
        shouting together.)
1st Monk,                  (rising) It is over, Brethren !
                           (The rest rise up.)
2nd Monk.                  Peace, be with them !
1st Monk.                  Now must we hence — for Glastonbury Abbey is no more.
3rd Monk.                  Alas ! We have no homes ! Whither can we go, Brother Robert ?
4th Monk.                  We have no refuge !
1st Monk.                  We must become wanderers ; fear not, GOD will direct our steps.
                           Away ! Let us not stay here, for Glastonbury is our home no longer !
                           (They go out together.)

ACT        VII ...... ....... ...... ...... ...... ..... ..... ...... "KING    MONMOUTH."

                                                 --------------

SCENE I ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ..... THE SEVEN MEN OF BUTLEIGH.
SCENE ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... MARKET PLACE, TAUNTON, TIME, 1685.

                                                  -------------


MARCH—
                                       INTRODUCTORY VERSE
                             Now through the land a torch of warfare flies.
                             A flume of fury and rebellion, kindling
                             The Western men to rise against their King.
                             The flag of Monmouth flutters on the breezes,
                             And Taunton's Maids and Butleigh's Yeomen throng:
                             To swear him fealty, and to die for him.



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              MONMOUTH, SOLDIERS, PARSON JOHN RADFORD, SEVEN MEN OF
              BUTLEIGH, HERALD, CROWD.
             (Enter HERALD, MONMOUTH, and his SOLDIERS. Advance to central
             position, and Crowd cheering.)
Crowd.       Long live the Protestant Duke !           Long live King Monmouth !
             (Cheers. The Duke takes off his hat and bows.)
Voice.       Let we pass thro'! Let we pass thro'. I zay ! I want to spake with
             the Duke !
1st Man.     Duke don't want to speak wi' the likes o! thee, wold man !
Radford.     (pushing through the crowd, followed by SEVEN MEN, armed with spades,
             scythes and pitchforks) Yes he do !        He do want to speak wi' all honest
             Men, for zartin sure !          Be that the Duke up yonder ?
             (Jerks his thumb in the direction of Monmouth.)
1st Woman.   Yes, that's the Duke, bless his heart!
Crowd.                                 GOD save King Monmouth !
Radford.     GOD bless King Monmouth an' the Protestant Succession !
             (Advances, and takes off his hat.) My Lord Duke! — that is,
             your Majesty !
Officer.     (stepping forward) Back fellow!
Monmouth.    Nay !       It is our pleasure to hear him !      Tell me your name, and
             where you come from ?
Radford.     I be Passon John Radvord, Sir ; from Butleigh, up handy Glastonbury.
Monmouth.    And what is your business with us, Parson John Radford ?
Radford.     (pointing to the Seven Men) Them's my business, Sir! I be come to bring
             Seven Stout Lads, from Higher Rock Farm up to Butleigh, to fight for
             'ee Sir !—all of 'em strong men an' brave, an' sturdy Protestants !
Monmouth.    It much rejoices me to hear of the devotion of Butleigh, who has sent
             us seven of her bold sons.
Radford.     They baint all of 'em true, Sir ! They're most of 'em for King James in
             Butleigh, Sir!
Monmouth.    What, with you for their pastor. Mr. Radford ? Surely you must be
             wrong?
Radford.     No, Sir, I hain't wrong !        There be only seven in all Butleigh ready to
             die for your Grace an' the Protestant Succession! Baint that true, lads ?
The Seven.   That's zo !        'Tes true what Passon do tell!
Monmouth.    I am glad that Butleigh holds seven men ready to die for the cause.
             Present to me my new recruits and subjects, Master Radford !
Radford.     Come, lads, his Grace do want to larn the names of 'ee !
             Step for'ard, an' salute when I do call 'ee !
The Seven.   Aye ! Aye !
             (Radford calls the names. Each man steps forward and touches his cap.)
Monmouth,    Right glad am I to receive the seven stout men before me. Mr.
             Radford, do you also follow us ?
Radford.     Not I, Sir! (chuckles) I be a passon, and a wold man !              I must go
             home to my vlock over to Butleigh.
Monmouth.    To win more good subjects ? For those seven sturdy troopers I thank
             you ! When Monmouth comes unto his own, Butleigh and her seven
             men shall not be forgotten.
             (Crowd cheers. Seven Men retire behind the Duke's troopers. Radford takes up his
             stand on the edge of the crowd.)



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                                                 SCENE       II.

                          (Enter the Maids of Taunton, led by their School-Mistress.)
Monmouth.                 Who comes ? I’ faith ! a bevy of the fairest ladies of Taunton Town !
Mistress.                 Your Majesty, I come hither with the maidens of my school to wish
                          you GOD-speed, and to do you honour.
Monmouth.                 Madam !        I am sensible of the honour, and I thank you.            Are
                          these fair maidens here the children of your school ?
Mistress.                 Yes, an' it please your Majesty ! (signs to one of the girls, who hands her
                          a Bible. Kneeling, she presents it to the Duke.) 1 would fain offer your Majesty
                          this Sacred Book, as a token of my loyalty, and a guide to your
                          Majesty's footsteps.
Monmouth.                 (taking Bible and raising her) I thank you. Madam. (Holds the Bible high
                          over his head.) The truths contained in this Book will I defend, and
                          seal, if need be, with my blood !
Girls.                    GOD bless King Monmouth and the Protestant Succession.
                          (Ckeers.     School-Mistress draws back.)
Head-Girl.                (kneeling, and presenting the Duke with a Sword on a crimson cushion)
                          I would offer your Majesty the Sword of Justice and of Righteousness,
                          wherewith to win your inheritance, to defend as your Majesty hath
                          promised the sacred Truths written in that Book, and the liberties of
                          your subjects.
Monmouth.                 (raising her) I am grateful to you, Mistress, and with the sword your
                          fair hands have offered me will I win back my Kingdom.
                          (Takes Sword. Girl curtseys and retires. Another Girl advances with half-furled
                          Banner.)
2nd Girl.                 Will your Grace accept the gift we offer ?—the best work of our hands
                          and the truest wishes of our hearts.
                          (Monmouth takes Banner and raises the Girl.)
Monmouth.                 You have my heartfelt thanks.             If ever I win my rightful Throne I
                          will not forget the Taunton Maids.             Worked by hands so fair, and
                          blessed with the wishes of such loyal hearts, this banner must lead to
                          victory.
All the Girls.            GOD save the King!
Crowd.                    GOD save the King!          Long live King Monmouth and the Protestant
                          Succession for ever !        A Monmouth !           A Monmouth !       A Monmouth !
                                   (Exeunt in procession.)


ACT          VIII ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... THE    CHANGE           OF     STYLE.

                                                 --------------

SCENE ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... GLASTONBURY ABBEY.
TIME ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ......  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1752.


MARCH ......            ......   ''POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE" ...... ...... ...... ELGAR.




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                              INTRODUCTORY VERSE

                 Why throng the men of Glastonbury hither ?
                 Why, bearing lanthornes, do they wildly rush
                 Unto the ruins of their Abbey ?
                                                  Know ye
                 " Th' old order changeth, yielding place to new,"
                 And to the Sacred Thorn-Tree flock the people.
                 What do they seek to learn ?
                                         They would consult
                 The Flowering Tree, would see if it bear blossom
                 Upon this Eve of Christmas.      Monk and Saint
                 Have died and passed away, but still the Thorn
                 Survives the Great Destruction, and each year
                 " Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our LORD ! "

                MASTER RICHARDS (Care-taker of the Abbey Ruins), SALLY PETERS, SAMMY
                FORD, and other of the Townsfolk:. Crowd.

                (Enter RICHARDS, carrying a Lanthorne, followed by several of the Towsnfolk.)
Richards.       Now hearken to me, all on 'ee !       Be we, or beant we, a-goin' to stand
                thiky change o' style ?
2nd Woman.      What's that, now ?
Richards.       Thiky change in calendar—the year, I do mean !
Crowd.          No ! So ! We baent a-goin' to stand no change ; the wold style's
                good enough vor our gramfers, and 'tis good enough for we !
Sally Peters.   (stepping forward) I don't hold wi' no change, I don't! I do zim it aint
                Chirstian-like, or right!
                (Roars of approval.)
Richards.       No! 'tidden right — 'tidden! An' I've a-written to King Jarge up
                to Lunnon to let 'un know what I do think o' un !
3rd Woman,      An' what did 'ee tell 'un, Maister Richards ?
Richards.       Why I did tell 'un vor zure 'twas wrong to alter thik there calendar !
                He do rob honest volks o' their days', an' bezides—the LARD made they
                wold days an' 'tidden right to change 'em. No, 'tidden !
Crowd.          No ! No ! tidden right !
Sally Peters.   Vor zartin zure 'tidden right! An' how's the Holy Tharn to blow
                when the day be changed ?
Croud.          Aye ! Aye ! Cassen tell us that ?
Richards.       Why that beant no difficulty, vriends !      Vor zure Tharn 'ud blow on
                the right day o' the year. An' if her don't blow thiky night —
                (pauses)—then—(triumphantly)—why then, 'tidden Christmas Eve !
                (Roars of approval.)
Sally Peters.   Be we a-goin' to look at Tharn, Maister Richards ?
Sammy Ford.     What ever vor ?
Sally Peters.       Why to zee if her do blow, vor zure !
2nd Woman.                                An' if her don't blow, what then !
Richards.                                                       Why 'tidden Chirsmas !
                (Laughter.)




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Michael and Harriet Wilcox




           71
2nd Man         Holy Tharn do blow at midnight, zo they do zay.
3rd Man.                                           I knows 'tis true, 'cos I zeed 'un myself !
4th Man.        Be'est a-goin' vor to look, Zammy Ford ?
Sammy Ford.     'Tis dark at midnight; thee cassen zee !
Richards.       Thee can'st take a light 'long wi" ee.
4th Man.        'Tis " hear " thee should zay, and not " zee," Zammy.
Sally Peters.   The buds do open wi' a crack-like. As they do come out ye can hear
                ‘Em haffer !
Sammy Ford.     'Tis zo !     I should ha’ zed " hear ! "
Richards.       Do 'ee come to Abbey Ruins then, an' hear 'em haffer !              We'll zoon
                larn King Jarge when Chirsmas Day be !
Crowd.          Aye ! Aye ! We'll larn 'un !
Sammy Ford.                             I beant a-goin' !
2nd Man.                                                       Nor I!
3rd Man.                                                                  Nor idden I !
Sally Peters.   Nor I, nuther !       I beant goin' to lose my night's rest to vind out when
                Chirsmas Day do come!
3rd Woman.      Thee's right, Zally Peters ; nor idden we !
Richards.       Beant ye a-comin' then ?          Do zim 'tis voolish to stay behind ! Ye be
                avraid o' the ghostes !       Why it may be Chirsmas Eve, an' ghostes
                         cassen hurt thee Chirsmas Eve !
                (He rushes over to the Thorn, followed by all the people.      They wait for
                a second or two in dead silence. Then —)

Sally Peters.   Canst hear 'em haffer ?
2nd Woman.                          What, they buds ?
3rd Woman.                                              No !    I dont hear nowt!
Richards.       (holding his Lanthorne dose to the Tree) Why there beant no vlowers
                'pon the Tree!
Crowd.          No vlowers ?
Richards.                         Narry one little bud !
Sally Peters.                           Then ‘tidden Chirsmas Eve !
Richards,                                                    No, 'tidden Chirsmas Eve!
Sammy Ford.     Thee must write another letter to King Jarge, vriend Richards, an' tell
                'un Holy Tharn don't blow !
Sally Peters.   That's zo !     He must write to King Jarge !
Richards,       Why, zo I will ! I'll warn't we can larn 'un zummat from Zummerzet !
                (Music strikes up)

                                        -------------

                            GRAND           PROCESSION




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                               EPILOGUE
               The dream is dreamed, the ancient tale is done ;
               The magic tapestry of History spun ;
               The Olden Times have long since passed away—
               " Alas! the Good Old Times ! " we sadly say.
               So too the present flies, the Future comes;
               We mourn dead Time, and sound his funeral drums;
               But ever present is old England's Past,
               And while this sphered Earth of ours shall last
               No single hero seen by you this day
               Shall in oblivion’s darkness melt away!
               Still Avalon shall be the blessed Isle
               Round whose grey Ruins fruitful orchards smile—
               Where blessed Joseph breathed the earliest prayer
               That rose on Heavenward wings through British air,
               The Island where St. Dunstan's harp once rang,
               Where Choirs of Angels never ceasing sang.
               In future years shall more green laurels grow
               " Where falls not hail, nor rain, nor any snow."
               With kind indulgence have you heard us through,
               And Butleigh’s heartiest thanks to you are due.
               No longer will we hold you captive here,
               God-speed ! we bid you with a mighty cheer.
                                       (The, Crowd gives loud cheers.)
               We pray this memory in your hearts may dwell—
               Give us but one kind thought, and so— (all)—Farewell!

                             -------------------------------

                     GOD        SAVE THE                  KING

The audience are earnestly requested to keep their seats during the final procession.




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