The Tragedie o Macbeth
Author(s): David Purves
Copyright holder(s): David Purves
A Rendering into Scots of Shakespeare's Play
Dr David Purves's translation into modern Scots of Shakespeare's only Scottish play has the effect of giving the characters a fresh vitality which is sometimes in danger of being lost in the impressive English of 1606. The combination of Scottish plot and Scots language is a happy one that brings the play to renewed life without detracting in any way from its drama or importance.
by David Purves
This translation and adaptation of Shakespeare's Macbeth into Scots has been made with certain objectives regarding language and performance.
The Scots language employed is an acceptable, consistent, modern prose language, which should be readily understandable to an English-speaking audience with some previous familiarity with the play. Different registers have been used as appropriate.
The traditional scansion in blank verse has generally been applied wherever used by Shakespeare but weight has also been given to ease of reading, comprehension, and performance. The underlying scansion remains in iambic pentameters but fairly freely, so that comprehension is not impaired by forced line endings. For the same reason, the tags of lines beloved by earlier Shakespearian editors have in general been abandoned. Both features make this a suitable text for live performance as well as an easier and more natural text for personal reading, while remaining close to the dramatic and poetic form of the original.
At a textual level, no claim is made that this is a word-for-word translation of Shakespeare's text into Scots, but allowing for the constraints of the Scots language, and the requirements of performers as mentioned above, a fairly literal translation has been achieved. The version most often followed is the Signet Classic Shakespeare The Tragedy of Macbeth, edited by Sylvan Barnet (1963), but reference has also been made to The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, edited by W J Craig for the Oxford Shakespeare (OUP, 1916), and to J M D Meiklejohn's edition (W & R Chambers, 1907).
Inevitably, there have been gains and losses in translating Shakespeare's English into Scots, but since performances of this great play have in modern times become ritualised, the use of Scots serves to restore meaning to important passages which have tended to become worn-out and hackneyed.
Although the plot of Macbeth owes little to history, it is set in Scotland. Conventionally, however, no concessions are made to this fact in casting for productions of the play, although references to Scottish place-names cannot be avoided. To be completely realistic, perhaps, the play should be performed in Gaelic, but this would restrict audiences to a small number of people. Scots has the advantage of being nearly comprehensible to English-speaking people, and its use in this play at least conveys the impression that the action is in Scotland.
This play was first publicly read by the Edinburgh Playwrights' Workshop in March 1987.
NOTES ON SCOTS ORTHOGRAPHY
by David Purves
The system of spelling Scots used in this play closely follows the Recommendations for Writers in Scots published by the Scots Language Society in LALLANS 24, Whitsuntid, 1985. On the basis of this system, it is possible to deduce the pronunciation of nearly every specifically Scots word from its spelling, so the system should assist actors to avoid errors in pronouncing unfamiliar Scots words. Such errors are now quite common in stage productions of plays in Scots and, inevitably, they detract from the authenticity and value of performances.
In this system, with a few exceptions, each vowel or digraph represents one sound in Scots. The troublesome "ea" digraph is largely replaced by "ae", "ai", or "ei" as appropriate, and the "ee" and "oo" digraphs borrowed from English are largely replaced by "ei" and "ou" respectively. However, in this particular text, the "oo" digraph is retained in place of "ou" in a few words, such as oot, aboot, oor and soond, to avoid confusion with English pronunciation. The "ui" digraph, wherever it occurs, represents the modified "o" sounds, as in pair, guid and drain.
The diphthongs in words such as wynd (alley); byde, wyfe, dyke, cry and ly (lie) are invariably represented by the letter "y" and "i" is reserved for the short vowel in finnd, blinnd and shilpit (puny). To actors unfamiliar with spoken Scots, it will be necessary to remember that "i" is generally short, that final "ie" (as in gie and grie) is pronounced as in "see" and that "ou" is pronounced as in French whenever it appears in the text. However the system is consistent and, once the reader is familiar with it, should present few difficulties.
Thanks are due to Professor A J Aitken who read the MS and suggested a number of improvements to the Scots in the text.
The following excerpts of well-known passages from this playscript have already been published in Chapman, Lallans and The New Makars (The Mercat Press, Edinburgh), and thanks are also due to the editors of these publications.
Lallans 27, November 1986 Act I, Scene 3; Act IV, Scene 1; Act V, Scene 5
Lallans 37, November 1991 Act II, Scene 1; Act III. Scene 2; Act IV, Scenes 1 and 3
Chapman 59, January 1990 Act II, Scene 1
The New Makars, 1991 Act IV, Scene 1; Act V, Scene 5
Acknowledgement is also made to Charles Nowosielski, Artistic Director of the Brunton Theatre, Musselburgh, for making the suggestion in 1986 that this translation should be undertaken as a demonstration of the potential of the Scots Language for high drama.
THE TRAGEDIE O MACBETH
DUNCAN, king of Scotland
DONALDBAIN, his sons
MACBETH, general of the king's army
BANQUO, another general
CAITHNESS, noblemen of Scotland
FLEANCE, son to Banquo
SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland
Young SIWARD, his son
SETON, an officer attending on Macbeth
BOY, son to Macduff
An English Doctor
A Scottish Doctor
An Old Man
A Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers
The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions
Scene 1 Up on the moor
Scene 2 King Duncan's camp
Scene 3 Up on the moor
Scene 4 Royal palace at Forres
Scene 5 Macbeth's castle, Inverness
Scene 6 Before Macbeth's castle
Scene 7 Macbeth's castle
Scene 1 Courtyard of Macbeth's castle
Scene 2 Macbeth's castle
Scene 3 Entrance to Macbeth's castle
Scene 4 Outside Macbeth's castle
Scene 1 Royal palace, Forres
Scene 2 Royal palace, Forres
Scene 3 Near the royal palace
Scene 4 The royal palace
Scene 5 The royal palace
Scene 1 A cavern
Scene 2 Macduffs castle in Fife
Scene 3 The palace of Edward the Confessor
Scene 1 In the castle at Dunsinane
Scene 2 Open country near Dunsinane
Scene 3 Courtyard of castle at Dunsinane
Scene 4 Country near Birnam Wood
Scene 5 Courtyard of castle at Dunsinane
Scene 6 Before the castle at Dunsinane
Scene 7 Part of the battlefield
A deserted moor. There is a storm with thunder and lightning.
Enter three witches.
First Witch: Whan sal we thrie meet again
in thunner, fyre-flaucht or in rain?
Second Witch: Whan the hurlie-burlie's duin,
whan the battil's lost an wun.
Third Witch: We'l meet afore the sun gaes doun.
First Witch: An whaur the place?
Second Witch: Up on the muir.
Third Witch: Thare ti tryst Macbeth.
First Witch: (To her familiar spirit) A'm cummin, Graymawkin!
Second Witch: Dae ye hear? The taid caws.
Third Witch: We cum at aince!
All: Fair is foul, an foul is fair:
flie throu the haar an clairtie air!
A camp near Forres. Trumpet offstage. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm,
Donalbain and Lennox with attendants. Enter a wounded officer.
Duncan: What bluidie man is yon? The state he's in
he'l hae fresh word for us o the revolt.
Malcolm: This is the chief -- the verra man -- that focht
sae weill ti set me free. Fair faw, brave frein!
Tell til the Keing hou gaed the fecht the tyme
ye quat it!
Officer: It wes an even thing, yeir Grace;
lyke twa spent soumars that hings thegither afore
gaun doun. The war a whyle whan fikkil Fortuin
wes lyke ti favor merciless MacDonald,
sae weill supplied wi kerns an gallowglasses,
owre frae the Western Isles. But wha can staun
agin the brave Macbeth? Weill he deserrs the name!
He focht his road throw thaim until he met
MacDonald -- nae fairfaw or fareweill ti him --
an thare he kervit him frae wame ti chowks;
syne hank't his heid upon oor battilments.
Duncan: Weill duin, ma cuisin! Weil duin!
Officer: The're mair ti tell.
Nae suiner haed we, airmed wi richteous micht
garred thir lowpin kerns tak til thair heels,
whan frae the Aest -- the verra airt whaur easement
seemed ti cum -- the Laird o Noroway,
seein his chaunce, set on oor backs wi plenisht
thrangs o men.
Duncan: At this, oor chiefs, Macbeth
an Banquo, maun shuirlie been disjaskit?
Officer: Nae mair dounkuist war they nor aigils faced
wi speugs, or lions bi mawkins, they mair
nor doubilt thair straiks upon the fae.
Binna they meant ti douk in reikin wounds,
or gar kyth anither Golgotha,
A canna tell--
But Syre, A'm lyke ti swerf awa. Ma gashes
crys for help.
Duncan: Yeir wards an wounds brings honor baith upon
yeir heid. Gae fesh a medicines til him swythe!
(Exit Officer with assistance. Enter Ross and Angus)
Wha cums here!
Malcolm: The wurthie Thane o Ross.
Lennox: The're hatter an hurrie in his een. Weill micht
he look that cums ti speak o unco things.
Ross: God save the Keing!
Duncan: Whaur cum ye frae, ma wurthie Thane?
Ross: Frae Fife, gret Keing,
whaur Noroway's banners flyte the lift
an fan oor fowk wi nitherin northern cauld.
Noroway himsell wi mukkil thrang,
an helpit bi the siccar traitor, Cawdor,
bure doun sair afore we contert him.
He'l be a whein less forritsum nou,
for in the hinner end, yeir Grace, we wan!
Duncan: Sic gledsum wurd ye bring! A'm blyth ti hear it!
Ross: An nou, The Keing o Noroway wad fain mak peace,
nor wad we lat him buirie aw his deid
or he peyed owre til us ten thousan merks
on Inchcolm's grund.
Duncan: Nae mair yon Thane o Cawdor wul begek us.
Gang you at aince annunce his daith bedein,
an wi his former teitil greet Macbeth.
Ross: A'l see it's duin, yeir Grace.
Duncan: What Cawdor's tint, the braw Macbeth haes wun.
A moor, with thunder. Enter the Three Witches
First Witch: Whaur hae ye been, sister?
Second Witch: Killin pigs.
Third Witch: Sister, an whaur hae you?
First Witch: A sailor's wyfe haed chesnuts in hir lap,
an chowed, an chowed an chowed. "Gie me," says A.
"Awa wi ye, Wutch," the fat-ersed hotch crys back.
Hir man is til Aleppo gaen, maister o the Tiger,
but in a sieve A'l follae him,
an lyke a rat athout a tail,
A'l dae, A'l dae, an A'l dae.
Second Witch: A'l gie ye a wund.
First Witch: Ai, ye are kynd!
Third Witch: An A'l gie ye anither.
First Witch: An A hae aw the ithers,
an the ports ti whaur they blaw
frae aw the monie airts they ken
i the shipman's compass caird.
A'l souk him dry as hey,
an nicht an day, nae sleep wul hing
on his eelids. Cursit he'l leeve
throu wearie weeks, ful nyne tymes nyne,
dwaibil, dwaibil, peak an dwyne,
an tho his ship canna be lost,
yit it wul aye be tempest tosst
upon the gurlie sea.
See what A hae here!
Second Witch: Lat me see, lat me see!
First Witch: Here hae A a pilot's thoum
frae shipwreck on the sea
(There is the sound of a drum offstage)
Third Witch: A drum, a drum--!
Here cums Macbeth!
(They set to each other and perform a figure of eight in reel time)
All: The weird sisters, haund in haund,
fliears owre the sea an land,
this is the wey they daunce aroond.
thryce ti thyne an thryce ti myne,
and thryce again to mak up nyne.
Wheisht nou, the spell is kuist!
(Enter Macbeth and Banquo)
Macbeth: Sae foul an fair a day A haena seen.
Banquo: Hou ferr is't cryit ti Forres? Wha are thir
sae wuthert an sae outlin in thair claes.
they're haurlie lyke th'inhabitants o yird,
an yit byde in't.
(To witches) Are ye alive or are ye ocht
that men can speak til? Ye seem ti unnerstaun me --
A see ye pit yeir chappit fingirs on
yeir wuzzent lips. Ye kyth lyke weimen,
for aw yeir baerds gainsays yeir sex.
Macbeth: Speak gin ye can; what are ye?
First Witch: Fair faw, Macbeth! Hail ti ye, Thane o Glamis!
Second Witch: Fair faw, Macbeth! Hail ti ye, Thane o Cawdor!
Third Witch: Fair faw, Macbeth! oor Keing in days ti cum!
Banquo: Guid Syre, whatfor ye strunt an seem ti fear
thir things that soonds sae graund?
(To witches) In the name o truith,
Are ye imaginarie, or what ye kyth
ti be? Ye greet ma gentil frein wi honor --
sae monie promises, gret guid fortuin
an ryal howp that he seems owre the muin,
an yet ti me ye say naething ava.
Gin ye can keik intil the seeds o tyme
an ken the grains that growes an thaim that dees,
speak than ti me, that naither begs nor fears
yeir pouers nor yit yeir spleen.
First Witch: Hail!
Second Witch: Hail!
Third Witch: Hail!
First Witch: Lesser nor Macbeth an greter.
Second Witch: No sae blyth, yit mukkil blyther.
Third Witch: Faither o keings, tho ye be nane.
Sae aw hail, Macbeth an Banquo!
First Witch: Banquo an Macbeth, aw hail!
Macbeth: Byde, ye meisterie speakers, tell me mair!
Frae ma faither's daith A ken A'm Thane o Glamis;
but hou o Cawdor? The Thane o Cawdor leeves
weill daein and unco bien; for ti be Keing
A haena onie prospect A coud credit,
nae mair nor ti be Cawdor. Say frae whaur
cam ti ye this unco wurd, an whatfor
ye hinner us on this wund-blattert muir
wi siclyke prophesies! Speak oot, wul ye?
(The witches vanish)
Banquo: The yird haes bubbles lyke the wattir haes,
an that's what they war. But whaur hae they gaen?
Macbeth: Intil the air, an what seemed flesh an bluid
haes santit awa lyke braith intil the wund.
A wush they haed bidden!
Banquo: Is what we speak aboot sumthing that happent?
Or hae we ett sum puzzint ruit that's cawed us gyte?
Macbeth: Yeir bairns wul be keings!
Banquo: You sal be Keing!
Macbeth: An Thane o Cawdor tae--! That's what wes said,
Banquo: That wes the sense an thir the verra wurds.
(Enter Ross and Angus)
Ross: The Keing wes blyth ti hear, Macbeth, the wurd
o yeir success. As he thinks owre the pairt
ye played fechtin wi the rebels, he haurlie kens
ti ferlie or ti praise the mair. Struck dumb
wi admiration he wes the haill day lang,
whyle wurd cam in anent yeir buirdlie wark
agin the thrawart Vikings, an awbodie bure
yeir praises in his Kinrik's gret defense,
an poured thaim doun afore him.
Angus: We are sent
Ti gie ye frae oor ryal Maister thenks
an syne ti herald ye afore his sicht.
Ross: An as a foretaste o greter honor,
he bad me cry ye Thane o Cawdor. Hail,
maist wurthie thane! This teitil is yeir ain.
Banquo: What, can the Deil speak true?
Macbeth: But the Thane o Cawdor leeves. Whatfor
dae ye dress me in thir borraed claes?
Angus: Him that wes Thane leeves yit, but no for lang,
for unner wechtie judgment is his lyfe,
an he deserrs ti dee. Whuther he made
a paction wi Noroway or the rebels A kenna --
he socht the dounfaw o his kintrie an
he stauns condemned.
Macbeth: (Aside) Glamis an Thane o Cawdor:
the gretest is ti cum.
(To Ross and Angus)
Thenks for yeir truibil!
(Aside to Banquo)
Dae ye no howp yeir bairns wul nou be keings,
whan thaim that geed me Cawdor hecht the mair
Banquo: (Aside to Macbeth)
Pit you owre mukkil trust in this,
it winna be lang afore ye ettil for the croun,
forby the Thane o Cawdor. It's droll that whyles
the Pouers o mirk wul tell us unco truiths
ti dae us skaith -- win us wi nick-nacks
for ti begek us in graunder maitters.
Macbeth: Freins, A'm mukkil behauden til ye baith.
(Aside) A'm shuir this truck wi supernaitral things
is naither guid nor ill. If ill, whatfor
this promise o success biggit on the truith.
Am A no Thane o Cawdor richt aneuch?
If this be guid, what is this unco thocht
that gars ma hair birss up an gars ma hert
gae stoundin in ma kist in this byordnar gait?
Ma present fears is less nor outlin dreams.
This murder is nae mair nor fantasie,
an yit it haes the pouer ti smoor the functions
o ma corp. An naething is but what is no!
Banquo: Oor frein's awa in a dwam.
Macbeth: (Aside) Gin chaunce can mak me Keing,
syne chaunce micht croun me on its ain.
A needna steir masell at aw.
Banquo: New honors faw on him -- lyke braw new claes,
they haurlie fit him richt as yit.
Macbeth: (Aside) An cum what may, tyme winna byde,
but rins aye throu the rochest day.
Banquo: Wurthie Macbeth, we byde yeir convenience.
Macbeth: Forgie me! A wes awa in a dwam wi things
forgotten. We maun awa an meet the Keing!
(Aside to Banquo)
Think weill owre what haes happent here at leisure.
Whan we hae wyed it up, we'l speak oor herts
Banquo: A'l dae that gledlie.
Macbeth: Till than, aneuch. Cum, freins!
The Royal Palace at Forres. A fanfare of trumpets. Enter King
Duncan, Lennox, Malcolm, Donalbain and attendants.
Duncan: Haes Cawdor been beheidit yit? Hae they
returned that war chairged ti cairrie oot
Malcolm: Yeir Grace, they haena yit cam back,
but A hae spoken wi a man that saw him dee.
It seems afore the end that he awned up
til aw his treason, an pled yir Grace's pairdon.
Naething in aw his lyfe becam him lyke
his leavin it. He dee'd a man whas daith
wes weill rehearsit, as gin he saw his end
o littil account.
Duncan: The're whyles nae wey ti ken the mynd o man
frae what is skreivit on his face. Here wes
a man ti wham A gied ma utmaist trust.
(Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus)
Macbeth, ma wurthie cuisin, a meinit syne
A felt A haed been guilty o ingratitude.
Sae byuss are yeir monie services,
it seems A maun foraye byde in yeir debt.
Twad been mair eith for me ti thenk ye
haed ye duin a hantil less.
Aw A hae left ti say ti ye is this:
ye are due mair frae me nor A can ever pey.
Macbeth: (Kneeling, Banquo follows suit)
Whatever service A can dae yeir Grace
is aye its ain rewaird. Yeir Grace's pairt
is ti receive oor service til the croun.
Nae mair are ye obleiged.
Duncan: Ye are richt walcum here.
A hae stertit ti plant ye, an nou A ettil
for ti see ye growe!
(To Banquo) But gentil Banquo,
nae less hae ye deserred, it maun be kent.
Here, Man, lat me hand ye til ma hert!
(Banquo rises and is embraced)
Banquo: Gin A growe thare, the hairst wul be yeir ain.
Duncan: Here am A, owrehailit wi sae monie joys,
but aye the're dule here tae.
(He holds his heart) Sons, freins, thanes,
Aw ye that bydes close til ma hert, maun ken
That A wul settil the crown on ma auldest son,
Malcolm. Frae this day forrit, he sal be cryit
Prince o Cumberland, an his honor wul shyne
lyke the sterns on aw that deserrs it.
(To Macbeth) Frae here we gang til Inverness whaur we
wul veisit ye an binnd ye nearer til oor hert.
Macbeth: What isna duin ti serr ye is dour darg,
Yeir Grace! A wul ryde on aheid an cheer
the wyfe wi notice o yeir cummin.
An sae A'l tak ma leave o ye, yeir Grace.
Duncan: Ma wurthie Cawdor!
Macbeth: (Aside) The Prince o Cumberland!
This is a move that's shuirlie in ma road.
A maun lowp owre or foonder here. Sterns,
dern yeir ootlin fyres! Lat nae licht faw
on a ma blek desyres. Lat ma een
be blinnd til the haund's deed, but lat it be
duin for aw, what the ee is feart ti see!
(He leaves smartly)
Duncan: Leal Banquo, he is sae braw an bauld,
he's fair lyke a feast ti me. We'l up an awa
an follae him that gaes aheid ti walcum us.
Whatna byuss frein he is!
(Fanfare. They leave slowly)
Macbeth's castle, Inverness. Enter Lady Macbeth, alone, with a letter
L. Macbeth: (Reads) "They met up wi me in the day
o ma success, an A hae lairnt sensyne that they
ken ferr mair nor mortal leir. Whan A wes fain
ti quaisten thaim the mair, they chyngit inti air
an santit intil't. An whyle A stuid dumfounert
at the wunner o't, caddies cam frae the Keing
an hailit me 'Thane o Cawdor', the verra teitil
the weird sisters haed uised afore ti salute me.
Forby, thir sisters greetit me wi 'Hail Macbeth,
Keing in days that is ti cum!' A thocht A wad
report this til ye, dearest wyfe, sae that ye wadna
loss the chaunce ti rejyce throu no kennin aw the
gretness promised ye. Lay you this letter til
yeir hert! Fareweill"
Glamis ye are, an Cawdor, an ye sal be
what is promised ye. Yit A am feart
yeir naitur is ferr owre fou o the milk
o human kyndness ti uise the quickest wey.
Ye wad be gret, ye hae th'ambeition for't,
but ye are ferr owre sachless for it.
What ye desyre sae mukkil, ye wad hae richtlie;
no play it fauss, great Glamis, yit win it wranglie,
but it maun be ae wey or tither. Hoy hame
at aince sae A can bouster up yeir speirit
wi ma tongue. A'l dird awa for ye
awthing that hands ye frae this gowden croun
that supernaitral pouers haes made yeir weird.
What wurd dae ye bring?
Messenger: The Keing cums here the-nicht.
L. Macbeth: Ye're shuirlie gaen gyte ti tell me this!
Is yeir maister no wi him? The Keing
wad shuirlie gien me tyme for preparation
gin this be true.
Messenger: Please, ma Leddie,
it's true aneuch he cums. Ane o ma men
ootran him here. He wes that oot o braith
he'd mukkil adae ti speak his wurd.
L. Macbeth: Tend til him!
He brings gret news.
The corbie himsell is hairse
that craiks the fatal entrie o Duncan
ablo ma battilments. Cum ben ye spreits
that tends on deidlie thochts; tak awa ma sex
an fill me pang fou frae croun ti tae
wi utmaist crueltie! Mak ma bluid thick!
Clag aw springheids o peitie or compassion
in ma saul, latna ma naitur hinner me
in ma fell purpose, an lat me hae nae peace
or it's fulfilled! Cum til ma wumman's breists
an chynge ma milk for gaw, ye murderin agents,
whare'er ye byde ti steir up naitur's mischief!
Cum doun, mirk nicht, an hap ye i the derkest
plaid o Hell, sae ma sherp knyfe wul no
can see the wound it maks, nor Heivin keik throu
the blanket o the derk an cry, "Haud on! Haud on!"
Gret Glamis! Wurthie Cawdor!
Hailit greter nor baith in tyme ti cum!
Yeir skreives haes taen me sae ferr ootby masell,
A ken the future in the praisent tyme.
Macbeth: Ma dearest luve, Duncan cums here the-nicht.
L. Macbeth: An whan dis he leave?
Macbeth: He ettils for ti gang the-morn.
L. Macbeth: The sun wul never see the day he gangs.
Yeir gizz, ma Thane, is lyke a book whaur men
can read sum unco things. Ye maun kyth saikless
in yeir day, beir walcum in yeir ee,
year haund, yeir tongue: seem lyke an innocent flouer,
but be for aw the serpent that bydes ablo it.
Him that's cummin maun be serred, an ye
maun pit this nicht's gret business in ma haunds.
This nicht wul gie the sovereign pouer til aw
oor nichts an days ti cum.
Macbeth: We'l speak mair eftir.
L. Macbeth: Juist mynd an be yeirsell! Shaw you nae care
upon yeir face, for that wad be wanchauncie!
Leave aw the lave ti me!
Before Macbeth's castle. Oboes and torches. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus and attendants
Duncan: This castle haes a pleasant site. A lyke
the air -- it's douce an caller here
an lowns ma senses.
Banquo: Thir simmer guests o oors,
kirk-hantin martins, fairlie lykes this place.
A see the're nae guid neuk or gaivil whaur
they haena wrocht ti bigg thair hingin nests.
A hae taen tent that whaur they breed an hant,
the air's aye delicate.
(Enter L. Macbeth)
Duncan: See, here oor honored hostess! Aw this luve
that follaes me aroond is whyles a fasherie,
but aye A treisure it. Hou can A thenk ye
for aw yeir truibil?
L. Macbeth: What littil A can dae
ti serr ye, Syre, gin it war monie tymes
as mukkil, wad be smaw wecht ti wye agin
the monie honors that yeir Hieness lades
upon this houss. We byde behauden til ye
for favors bestowed, baith in the past
an in the praisent tyme.
Duncan: But whaur oor Thane o Cawdor?
We follaed close upon his heels.
(Jocularly) 'Twes in ma mynd ti pass him on the road
athoot him kennin, an be his stewart here;
but A dout he rydes owre weill, an his gret luve
haes egged him on an helpit him ti win
back hame afore me. Ma fair an gentil hostess,
we are yeir guest the-nicht!
L. Macbeth: Yeir sairvants, Syre, haud thair vassals an aw
in trust for ye, an at yeir Hieness' pleisir
we wul gie accoont. This is nae mair
nor giein ye back what is yeir ain.
Duncan: Gie me yeir haund, Ma Leddie,
an tak me ti ma host! A loue him weill,
an shuir as daith, he wul continue in
ma grace. Bi yeir leave, hostess--!
Macbeth's castle. Oboes and torches. Enter a steward and various servants moving with dishes over the stage. Then enter Macbeth.
Macbeth: If it wes owre an duin wi whan it's duin,
the suiner it's duin the better. Gin Duncan's daith
coud be the end o it, an thare coud be
nae ither ootcum o't nor ma success;
gin it coud be the be-aw an end-aw,
A'd drie whate'er befaws this syde o Eternitie,
an chaunce the lyfe ti cum. But discretion
in thir cases is aye wantin, for fear
oor bluidie example ti the warld
cums back again ti fash us. Sic even-haundit
justice micht weill fesh back the waucht
o oor puzzint chalice til oor ain lips.
He's doubil in ma trust the whyle he's here.
First as A am his cuisin an his subject --
guid argiement agin this deed. Syne as his host
A shuirlie soud be steikin the yett agin
his murderers -- no beirin the knyfe masell.
Duncan haes been forby sae strecht an true
an aye sae cannie wi his pouers, the're shuir
ti be ane unco dirdum at his daith.
Peitie wul blowster lyke ane awesum gale
owre aw the kinrik an blaw the ugsum deed
in ilka ee, or aw the tears wul droun
the wund. What brod hae A ti jag the sydes
o ettil, forby vaultin ambeition, that lowps
aye owre itsell ti foonder the tither syde.
(Enter L. Macbeth)
What is't? What wurd?
L. Macbeth: He's gey near feinisht his supper.
Whatfor hae ye left the chaumer?
Macbeth: Haes he been spierin for me?
L. Macbeth: Did ye no ken he haes?
Macbeth: We wul gae nae ferrer in this maitter.
He haes honored me latelie an A hae gained
a hantil graund opeinions frae monie fowk.
A soud enjey thir nou -- no thraw thaim at
L. Macbeth: Sae what haes happent til the howps
ye wure yestrein? They luik gey seik an shilpit nou
bi what they kythit syne! Frae this day on
A ken what stowe ti pit upon yeir luve.
Are ye sae feart than, for ti match yeir smeddum
wi yeir desyres? Dae ye want ti byde a couart
in yeir ain regaird? Nou is it aye ti be
wi you, "A daurna" raither nor "A wul",
lyke the cat that wants the fish, but's feart
ti weit her paws.
Macbeth: Juist hand you yeir tongue!
A daur dae aw that richtlie suits a man;
wha daurs dae mair is nane.
L. Macbeth: What deil wes't than
that gart ye brek this unco skame ti me?
Whan ye daured dae it, than ye war a man;
an gin ye war mair nor what ye war, ye'd be
that mukkil mair the man. Syne, naither tyme
nor place wes richt, but you war gaun ti force
yeir chaunce. Nou that yeir chaunce haes made itsell,
ye haena the spunk ti tak it. Ai, A hae nursit
bairnies at ma breist, an weill A ken
hou douce it is ti loue the bairn that souks me.
A wad whan it wes smirtlin in ma face
hae yerkit ma tit frae oot its tuithless goums
an clasht its hairns oot, gin A haed sworn
as fell as ye hae duin ti this.
Macbeth: What if we fail?
L. Macbeth: We fail!
Juist screw yeir smeddum til the stickin place,
an we'l no fail! Whan Duncan is asleep --
he'l fairlie sleep the-nicht eftir his day's
dour traivil -- A'l fill his twa young chaumer louns
wi wyne an whan they ly streikit oot lyke daith
in swynish sleep, they'l mynd naething ava.
What than can you an A no dae whan Duncan
lys ungairdit? His drukken wairds the blame
for Duncan's daith wull shuirlie tak.
Macbeth: Ye soud beir onlie laddie bairns, ye hae
sic mettil. Wha wul dout thir dozent louns
haes duin it eftir we've slaigert thaim
wi bluid an uised thair verra dirks.
L. Macbeth: Wha'l daur say oniething mair, whan we skirl
an rair oor dule aboot the place at Duncan's daith.
Macbeth: A'm settilt nou an set ti bend masell
doun ti this frichtsum darg.
Awa an begowk the warld wi yeir fairest face.
Yeir fauss face maun dern what yeir fauss hert kens.
end of act I
The courtyard of Macbeth's castle at Dunsinane. Enter Banquo and Fleance with torch before him
Banquo: Hou's the nicht gaun, laddie?
Fleance: The muin is doun; A haena heard the clock.
Banquo: The muin gaes doun at twal.
Fleance: A think its later nor that, Syre.
(There is a sound)
Banquo: Haud on, tak ma sword. They're hainin in
in Heivin. They hae putten thair caunils oot.
(He hands him a bag)
Tak you that tae! The want o sleep
lys lourd on me, but yit A am waukrif.
Ye Pouers abuin, haud doun the gurlie thochts
that breks thair boonds ti kyth til us in sleep!
(Enter Macbeth and a servant with a torch)
Gie me ma sword! Wha's thare?
Macbeth: A frein!
Banquo: Mercie, Man, are ye never in yeir bed?
The Keing's awa ti his. He's fairlie enjeyed
himsell the-nicht, an haes gien monie praisents
ti yeir sairvants. He greets yeir wyfe wi this
braw dymont, in taiken o hir monie kyndnesses.
(He hands the diamond to Macbeth)
He gaed ti rest the-nicht mukkil content.
Macbeth: That wes rael gracious o him!
We'd howp't ti dae better bi him as hosts,
but oor wull ti serr wes hinnert bi the want
Banquo: Aw is weill, Man!
Dae ye ken, A dreamed lest nicht o the thrie
weird sisters? They fairlie shawed sum truith ti you.
Macbeth: A dinna think aboot thaim-- But whan A hae
an oor ti spare, we'l hae a crak thegither
anent yon unco business, gin ye can spare
Banquo: Whanever it suits ye!
Macbeth: Gin ye wul jyne ma cause whan the tyme cums,
the wul be honor in it for ye.
Banquo: Sae lang as A loss nane in seekin
ti gain mair, an haud ma conscience clear,
A'm open til yeir coonsel.
Macbeth: Sleep weill than!
Banquo: Thenkye! You tae!
(Banquo leaves with Fleance)
Macbeth: (To servant) Gae tell yeir mistress ti dingil the bell
as suin's ma drink is ready! Syne gae til yeir bed!
Is this a dirk A see afore me;
the haunil at ma haund? Cum lat me grup ye!
A canna feel ye an it seems ye are
nae mair nor a dirk that's in ma mynd,
a fanton norie in ma fevert brain.
Ay, A see ye're aye thare!
Yeir maik's as credible as this ane A draw.
(He draws his dirk)
Ye gyde me aye the gait A meant ti gae,
an sic a tool as ye A meant ti uise.
Ma een is oot o kilter wi ma ither senses,
but mebbe they're mair wurth nor aw the lave.
Ay, ye're aye thare, an on yeir blade and hilt
is slaigert bluid that wesna thare afore.
Ach, the're nae sic thing!
It's this gruesum business that effeks ma een.
Nou owre this ae hauf warld o nicht,
naitur's lyke deid, an evil dreams begunks
men in thair rest; wutchcraft an sorcerie cums furth.
Wuzzent murder, egged on bi his frein the wolf,
lamps on lyke a gaist ti dae what he maun dae.
A wadna want this steive-set yird ti hear
ma quaet feet -- what wey they walk -- for fear
the verra stanes crys oot that A am here,
an breks the spell o dreid that suits this oor.
But whyle A blaw awa, he leeves.
A've yammert on aneuch -- nou A maun dae.
(A bell rings)
A gae, an it is duin: the bell caws me.
Dinna you hear it, Duncan, for yon's the knell
That crys ye furth ti Heiven, or ti Hell!
Macbeth's castle. The entrance to the passage which leads to Duncan's chamber. Enter Lady Macbeth
L. Macbeth: The drink that's made thaim drunk haes made me bauld:
it's droukit thaim, but me it's set on fyre.
Listen! Wheisht! That wes a houlet skraich --
a shuir sign o daith. He is aboot his wark.
The doors is af the snek an the drukken louns
begowk thair trust wi snores.
A droggit thair het nicht-caps an they're nou
lyke deid til aw gaun on aroond thaim.
Macbeth: (Offstage) Wha's thare? What's gaun on?
L. Macbeth: Mercie, A dout they've waukent an the deed's
no duin! We're ruined in the verra attempt.
Here an A laid thair dirks oot ready for him.
He coudna miss thaim. A'd hae duin the thing masell
gin the auld man haedna brocht me in mynd
ma faither in his sleep.
(Enter Macbeth with bloodstained hands and carrying two dirks)
Macbeth: A hae duin it! Did ye no hear a dirdum?
L. Macbeth: A heard a houlet skraich an crickets chirp.
Did ye no speak?
L. Macbeth: The-nou--
Macbeth: As A cam doun?
L. Macbeth: Ay!
Wha sleeps i the saicont chaumer?
L. Macbeth: Donalbain.
Macbeth: (Distraught) Ai, what a waesum sicht!
L. Macbeth: A daftlyke thing ti say, a waesum sicht--
Macbeth: A heard sumbodie lauch in his sleep,
an sumbodie cryit "Murder". They waukent ither;
A stuid an heard thaim. Syne they said thair prayers
an gaed back again ti sleep.
L. Macbeth: Ay, the're twa o thaim i the ae chaumer.
Macbeth: Ane o thaim cawed oot, "God bliss us!" an the tither
cryit "Amen". Twes lyke they'd seen me staunin
wi ma bluidie haunds. Sensin their fear,
A made ti say "Amen" anaw, but fand
A coudna speak.'
L. Macbeth: Dinna think owre mukkil aboot it!
Macbeth: But hou is it A coudna say "Amen"?
A haed maist need o blissin, an "Amen"
stack in ma thrappil.
L. Macbeth: Ye maunna think this gait!
Sic thochts wul dryve us gyte.
Macbeth: A thocht A heard a vyce cry, "Sleep nae mair!
Macbeth is murderin sleep!" The saikless sleep,
the sleep knits up the raivilt hank o care,
the daith o ilk day's lyfe, o hattert mynds
the baum, the lown bath that dills awa
the day's dour darg, the saicont coorse in lyfe's
L. Macbeth: What dae ye mean? What are ye on aboot?
Macbeth: An aye it cryit "Sleep nae mair!" ti the haill houss.
"Glamis haes murdert sleep, an sae, Cawdor
wul sleep nae mair; Macbeth wul sleep nae mair."
L. Macbeth: Wha wes it that cryit this? What haivers is this?
Mercie, ma wurthie thane, ye're lossin yeir grip
ti think this seiklyke wey.
(Briskly) Gang git a pikkil wattir
an wash this dichtie taiken frae yeir haunds.
Whatfor did ye bring thir dirks awa frae the chaumer?
They maun byde thare! Cairrie thaim back an slairge
the sleepin chiels wi bluid!
Macbeth: (Shakes his head) A'l gang nae mair
in thare. A'm feart ti think what A hae duin;
A daurna luik on it again.
L. Macbeth: Ye haena the pith
Ti see it throu! Gie me the dirks! The sleepin
an the deid is haurlie mair nor picters.
It's sachless bairns that's feart for pentit deivils.
Gin he's aye bluidin, A'l gilt the faces o the louns
wi it, juist ti mak siccar they luik richt guiltie.
(She takes the dirks and leaves for Duncan's chamber. There is a sound of knocking offstage)
Macbeth: Whaur that chappin? What ails me nou,
whan A am glifft bi ilka soond A hear?
(He examines his hands)
What haunds are here? Ha! The sicht ryves at ma een!
A wunner gin aw the wattir in the ocean
wad synd this bluid frae af ma haunds. Na!
A raither think the bluid wad turn the haill
o the seas in aw the warld frae green
(Enter L. Macbeth)
L. Macbeth: Ma haunds is nou as reid
as yours, but A'd think shame ti shaw a hert
(There is again a sound of knocking)
A hear a chappin at the sooth yett.
Nou lat us gang swythe til oor chaumer!
A wee drap wattir redds us o this deed.
It's easy, Man! Birk up! Yeir smeddum haes
Listen, thare yon chappin again!
Pit on yeir dressin goun for fear we need an excuiss
for be-in up late! Ye maun gether yeirsell!
Macbeth: Gether masell--? Eftir this thing, A'd raither
ken masell nae mair.
Ay, wauken Duncan
wi yeir chappin! A wush ye coud!
Inside an outer door at Macbeth's castle. Enter a porter, slightly drunk. There is knocking offstage
Porter: Michtie, whatna chappin! Gin a man war
porter at the yett o Hell, he'd never be
duin turnin the key. A think it's Hell
this mornin richt aneuch.
Chap, chap, chap! Wha's thare i the Deil's
name? Here a fermer that hainit corn, an
hangit himsell whan the mercat dwyned!
Cum awa in, draw in yeir saet an bring yeir
napkin wi ye! Ye'l sweit for it in here, A tell ye!
Wha's thare in anither Deil's name? Here a
swick that helps hissell til ither fowk's siller!
But he dochtna cheat Heivin. Cum awa in ye swick,
Chap, chap, chap! Wha's thare nou? Here an
Inglish tylar here for skimpin woo in breiks
an hosen! Ye'l hae a ticht erse gin ye hae
bocht yeir breiks frae him, A tell ye.
Cum in tylar; ye can het yeir airn in here!
Chap, chap, ye're never quaet. But this
steid's ferr owre cauld for Hell. A'l play
this gemm nae langir. A haena tyme ti lat in
ilka trade that airts til the fyres o Hell.
A wad be here aw day.
Haud on, wul ye? A'm cummin richt awa!
(He opens the door)
Dinna forget ti mynd the porter!
(Enter Macduff and Lennox)
Macduff: What's wrang here, loun? War ye sweir ti gang
til yeir bed yestrein, ye ly sae late this mornin?
Porter: Losh, Syre, we war bebbin awa or the wee smaw oors,
an drink, ye ken, aye leads on ti thrie ither things.
Macduff: An what are they?
Porter: Reid nebs, a hantil pish an sleepiness --
Ay, an radgieness anaw. It kittils ye up, Syre,
but taks awa frae the performance.
Macduff: Ay, A daursay! Ye maun speak for yeirsell!
But here, A haena tyme ti kill, bletherin wi you
this mornin! Is yeir maister up an aboot?
Here he is, himsell! A see oor chappin's
waukent him i the hinner end.
Lennox: Guid mornin, guid Syre!
Macbeth: A guid mornin til ye baith!
Macduff: Haes the Keing steired yit, wurthie Thane?
Macbeth: No yit, as ferr's A ken.
Macduff: He tellt me ti be shuir an cry him aerlie.
A verra near lat slip the oor.
Macbeth: A'l tak ye til him.
(He conducts him to the door leading to the King's chamber)
Macduff: A ken ye're blyth ti tak the truibil for ti
see me in; but this is a fash for ye anaw.
Macbeth: Never you mismak yeirsell! Wark that gies us
pleisir is that less fash. Here the door!
Macduff: A'l mak sae bauld as gie him a cry. He is expekkin me.
(Macduff leaves through the door)
Lennox: Dis the Keing ettil ti leave the-day?
Macbeth: Ay, he dis! He's arranged ti gang this mornin.
Lennox: It's been a gey wyld nicht!
Lennox: Whaur we war, a hantil lums blew doun.
It wes an unco fell stramash.
They say the war bogils aboot last nicht,
that greitin an maenin wes heard i the air,
an eldritch skirls o daith.
Macbeth: O ay!
Lennox: Nicht houlets yammert the haill nicht lang.
Sum say the verra yird dirlt an trummilt.
Macbeth: Ay, it wes a toozie nicht, richt aneuch.
Lennox: A'm no that auld, but A canna mynd the neibor o't.
Macduff: Horror, horror, horror! A canna tell ye
what it's lyke in thare. It's mair nor ma hert can haud.
Macbeth & Lennox: Michtie, what's wrang?
Macduff: The're murder duin an sacrilege ben thare.
Sumbodie's brukken inti the kirk
an stown awa the lyfe o the shryne.
Macbeth: What's this, ye say? His lyfe--?
Lennox: Dae ye mean his Hieness?
Macduff: Gae ben til the chaumer an blinnd yeir ee
wi a new Gorgon. The sicht wad turn ye
inti stane at aince. A canna speak
nae mair aboot it. Dinna ask me til!
Gae see for yeirsells!
(Shouts) HELP, WAUKEN UP, AWBODIE!
(Macbeth and Lennox leave for Duncan's chamber)
Ring the alairm bell! MURDER AN TREASON!
Banquo, Donalbain, Malcolm! WAUKEN UP!
Are ye aw deid? WAUKEN UP! Cum you an luik
at Daith itsell! This is lyke Judgment Day!
MALCOLM! BANQUO! Up oot yeir sleepin lairs!
Ryse up lyke speirits ti see this horror!
Wul ye ding that infernal bell?
(The bell rings. Enter L. Macbeth)
L. Macbeth: What's aw this cairrie on?
What's aw this dirdum an bullerin at the sleepers
in this houss? Speak oot Man, speak!
Macduff: It's no for you, ma Leddie, ti hear the news
A hae ti tell. This wurd's no fit for weimen's lugs.
Ai, Banquo, Banquo, oor Ryal maister's murdert!
L. Macbeth: Ai, Mercie, Na, no in oor houss!
Banquo: It wad be owre ill a thing, oniewhaur!
Man, Duff, dinna say that! Tell me it's no true!
(Enter Macbeth, Lennox and Ross)
Macbeth: Gin A haed dee'd an oor afore this happent,
A'd leeved a blissit lyfe, but frae this meinit,
what's mensefu in ma days? Honor an grace is deid.
The wyne o lyfe is drawn. What's left for us nou,
but wershlyke days ablo the pend o Heivin?
(Enter Malcolm and Donalbain)
Donalbain: What's amiss here?
Macbeth: Ye are amiss yeirsell an dinna ken it.
The foontainheid o yeir bluid is stappit up.
The verra springheid is cut af.
Malcolm: What dis he mean at aw?
Macduff: Yeir ryal faither's murdert.
Malcolm: WHAT--! WHA BI--?
Lennox: It seems the louns in his chaumer did it.
Thair haunds an faces war aw merk't wi bluid;
sae war thair bluidie dirks we fand thare lyin
undichtit on thair pillaes. They goavit
at us an war bumbaized. 'Twes clear aneuch
nae man's lyfe coud e'er be trustit wi thaim.
Macbeth: A'm rael vext nou A slauchtert thaim in ma feim.
Macduff: Nou what did ye dae that for?
Macbeth: Wha can be wyce an dumfounert, douce an mad,
at aince? Nae man--! In ma rage A tint ma heid.
Here lay Duncan, his siller skin splaittert
wi gowden bluid, his awesum wounds a fair
affront ti naitur, an thare his murderers,
droukit in the color o thair trade,
thair dirks aw gruesumlie slairged wi gore.
Wha wi a lousum hert an the speirit
ti shaw it coud check himsell at sic a tyme?
L. Macbeth: (Evidently fainting)
Help me oot o here, for the luve o God!
Macduff: See til the Leddie!
Malcolm: (Aside to Donalbain)
Whatfor dae we haud oor tongues?
We war sib til the Keing an are the maist concernit
wi this maitter.
Donalbain: (Aside to Malcolm)
What daur we say here, for in this steid
oor fate is dernit frae oor sicht an micht
breinge oot an grup us? Lat us awa frae here!
Oor tears is yit ti shed.
Malcolm: (Aside to Donalbain) We'l ken better what ti dae
whan we've haed tyme ti murn.
Banquo: Luik eftir this Leddie!
(L. Macbeth is carried out)
Banquo: A dout we're aw sair fasht the-nou. Whan we
hae gethert oorsells and cuivert oor weaknesses,
lat us meet ti quaisten this nicht's fell wark
an finnd oot mair anent it. We aw maun staun
agin the treason that's dernit here as best we can.
Macduff: A grie wi that! What else are the ti dae?
All: That's what ti dae!
Macbeth: Awricht, as gleg as we can, lat's dress oorsells
in wycelyke mainner, an syne forgether in the haw!
All: That's richt!
(Everybody leaves but Malcolm and Donalbain)
Malcolm: What div ye ettil ti dae?
A dinna think we soud hing aboot here wi thaim.
It's no that ill for men whas herts is fauss
ti shaw a greitin face. A'l gang ti Ingland.
Donalbain: It wul be Ireland for me. It wadna be sauf
for us ti byde thegither. Whaur we are here,
the're dirks in men's smirtils, mair sae amang
oor nearest freins.
Malcolm: A'm shuir in ma banes in what's afuit;
we haena seen the end o murder yit.
It is wanchauncie nou for us ti byde.
A dout we maun awa! An lat us no
be owre pernickitie whan we tak oor leave,
but sant awa quaetlyke! It's no a thing
A lyke ti dae forordnar, but we canna
afford ti mynd oor mainners here!
Outside Macbeth's castle. Enter Ross with an old man
Old man: Ay, A can luik back on thriescore year
an ten, an in ma day, A hae seen a fek
camshachil things, but this sair nicht baets aw.
Ross: Ah, guid faither, see thare the verra heivins
is roosed wi man's ongauns an thraetens his bluidie stage!
Bi the clock it's day, an yit mirk nicht is lyke
ti smoor the sun. What ails this day, that mirk
soud hap the yird the oor the sun soud kiss it.
Old man: It's no naitral at aw; lyke the deed that's been duin.
D'ye ken last Tuesday, a michtie gled,
whyle tovin in the lift abuin, wes grundit
bi a moussin houlet an killed stane deid?
Ross: Ay, an Duncan's horses -- here A tell ye --
the brawest canniest horses o thair breed --
Duncan's horses brak doun thair staws, breinged oot
an turnt camsteirie in thair naitur. Naither
ti haud nor ti binnd they war. Sae A heartell.
Here cums guid Macduff. An hou are things the-day, Syre?
MacDuff: (Points to the sky)
Can ye no see for yeirsell? Look up abuin!
Ross: Dae they ken yit wha did this hellish deed?
Macduff: The louns that Macbeth killed--
Ross: Ai, Mercie, whatna day! What coud they howp ti gain?
Macduff: Nae dout thair luifs war creisht wi mukkil gowd.
The Keing's twa sons, Malcolm an Donalbain,
haes stown awa an fled, sae they are nou suspekkit.
Ross: That's agin naitur, for ti kill thair ain faither.
What wastrie in ambeition that kills yeir means o lyfe!
Syne it luiks lyke the croun gaes ti Macbeth?
Macduff: Ay, he's been named areddies. He's gaen ti Scone
Ross: An whaur is Duncan's tramort nou?
Macduff: Cairrit til Iona, ti jyne the banes
o aw his Ryal forbeirs, in the graveyaird
o the Keings o Scots.
Ross: Are ye gaun ti Scone?
Macduff: Na, Cuisin, A'l gang ti Fife.
Ross: A think A'l gang, tho. (He moves to leave)
Macduff: Weill, A howp ye see things is duin thare
in wycelyke mainner! Fareweill!
Old man: God's blissin gae wi ye, an wi aw men
maks guid frae ill an freins frae faes.
end of act II
The palace, Forres. Enter Banquo.
Banquo: Ay, ay, Macbeth, sae nou ye hae it aw
as the weird sisters hecht. Keing, Cawdor, Glamis,
an A misdout a dichtie gemm ye played
ti git it. Yit it wes said anaw yeir bairns
wadna haud the croun eftir yeir day is duin,
that A masell wad faither a hantil keings.
Gin they spak true, as they shuirlie did for ye,
can A no howp they'l dae as mukkil for me?
(A fanfare sounds)
But wheisht! A'd better say nae mair!
(Enter Macbeth, now King, and Lady Macbeth, now Queen,
accompanied by Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies and attendants)
Macbeth: Sae here oor chief guest, himsell!
L. Macbeth: (Whispering) It wadna dae ti hae forgotten him.
Macbeth: (Taking hint) Syre, this forenicht we mean ti haud
a spaicial supper. A'd be byordnar gled
for ye ti be oor guest.
Banquo: Whatever yeir Hieness wulls,
ye ken A am foraye at yeir service.
Macbeth: A ken, A ken! (Casually) Are ye gaun oot ti ryde
a whein this eftirnuin.
Banquo: Ay, yeir Hieness, A am.
Macbeth: If no, A wad be gled o yeir guid guidance
at this day's Cooncil. Aye what ye hae ti say
is generally soond. But the-morn wul dae!
Wul ye be rydin ferr, ye think?
Banquo: At least as ferr, Ma Lord, as wul uise up
the oors o licht atwein the-nou an supper.
Binna ma horse gangs weill, A micht weill hae
ti ryde an oor or twa i the derk forby.
Macbeth: Dinna you miss oor feast, nou!
Banquo: Yeir Hieness, A'l no dae that.
Macbeth: A hear oor murderous cuisins haes settilt
in Ingland an Ireland an that they're sweir
ti awn up that they killed thair faither.
They are gaun aboot tellin daftlyke yairns
til awbodie wul listen. But we'l speak
anent this the-morn whan we hae maitters
ti discuss concernin us baith. Af wi ye nou
til yeir horse! Fareweill or ye return the-nicht!
(Evidently as afterthought) Is Fleance gaun alang wi ye?
Banquo: Ay, yeir Hieness. It's mair nor tyme we war awa.
Macbeth: A howp the horses div rin weill. A guid ryde ti ye!
Lat awbodie feel free or seivin the-nicht!
A'l haud masell apairt till supper tyme,
sae A can walcum ye aw the better syne.
Or than, God be wi ye aw!
(They all leave, except for Macbeth and a servant)
(To servant) Here, you thare! A want a wurd wi ye.
Is yon men waitin?
Servant: Ay, they're thare, ma Lord, ootby the Palace yett.
Macbeth: Gae fesh thaim ti me!
(The servant leaves)
For ti be keing lyke this
is naething in itsell. A maun be sauf forby,
an A am feart for Banquo. The're sumthing ryal
in his naitur gars me be feart. He's wyce,
no heidstrang an his heid aye guides his hert,
sae he's no lyke ti dae wanchauncie things.
As lang as he's aboot A'l feel dounhauden.
He tairged the sisters whan they said A'd be Keing
an spiered at thaim ti speak til him anaw,
an syne they hailed him Faither o Keings. A dout
they've laid a sterile croun upon ma heid
an putten a barren sceptre in ma grup--
nae son o mynes wul follae eftir me.
Gin this is the wey it haes ti be,
A've shuirlie fyled ma mynd for Banquo's bairns--
for thaim A've murdert gracious Duncan.
A've soored ma peace o mynd for thaim alane.
Ma verra saul A've gien owre til the Deil
ti mak thaim keings! The sons o Banquo keings eh--?
Raither nor that, A'l tak on Fate itsell,
til the daith!
Macbeth: (Hearing a noise) Wha's thare at aw?
(The servant enters with two murderers)
(To servant) Nou gang you ti the door an byde thare
or A cry ye!
(The servant goes)
Wes it no yestrein we spak thegither?
1st Murderer: It wes, sae it please yeir Hieness.
Macbeth: Weill than, hae ye thocht owre what A said?
Ye ken nou it wes Banquo that ill-uised ye
yon tyme ye thocht it haed been me. A explained
aw this til ye whan we met afore.
A telt ye hou ye war begowkit, the men
he uised ti dae it, an awthing needfu ti prove
til onie fuil that Banquo wes ti blame.
1st Murderer: Ay, yeir Hieness, ye telt us awthing.
Macbeth: An sae A did! An A gaed ferrer tae.
That's what this saicont tryst is aw aboot.
Ye maun fairlie be patient ti forgie him
for herriein yeir faimlies, an dryvin ye
ti paupers' lairs.
1st Murderer: We are men, ma Lord!
Macbeth: O ay, A'm gled ti hear it. A daursay
ye micht be cawed men o a kynd - lyke hoonds,
stray curs, toozie tykes, shilpit whuppits,
an ill-faured mongrels is aw cryit dugs.
Thair pedigrees refleks thair monie byuss
qualities - sum guid rinners, sum soumars,
sum gleg, sum strang an sum guid hunters -
ilkane haes sum spaicial meith Naitur
haes gien it. It's aw the same wi men.
Whaur wad ye rate yeirsells A wunner?
Aiblins ye are no at the verra fuit
o the ledder - juist tell me this is sae,
an A'l gie ye sum darg wul redd ye o
yeir fae an binnd ye close in ma affection.
A'm a seik man as lang's this Banquo leeves.
A'm shuir his daith wul fairlie sort me!
2nd Murderer: A'm the kynd o man, ma Lord, that's been
sae taigilt in ma lyfe wi dirds an clours,
A carena what A dae ti spyte the warld.
1st Murderer: An A'm anither, sae wearie wi mishanters
an sae sair dounhauden, the're naething A wadna dae
ti mend ma lyfe, even gin A soud loss it.
Macbeth: Ye baith ken Banquo wes yeir fae!
Both Murderers: True, ma Lord.
Macbeth: Weill he is mynes, tae, an sic a deidlie fae
that ilka blink he is alive it jags me
ti the hert. Mynd you, A coud soup him
oot ma road the-morn in public -- juist say
it wes ma Ryal wush. But A maunna dae that!
We hae a hantil freins atwein us whas lealtie
A maun hae. The're ither wechtie reasons tae.
Sae A'l hae ti murn his daith for aw it wes me
that killed him. This is whaur ye cum in --
ti dern the truith anent his daith frae the warld.
2nd Murderer: We'l dae, ma Lord, whatever ye tell us til.
1st Murderer: Even gin oor lyves........
Macbeth: Within the oor, A'l tell ye
whaur ti dern yeirsells, an the best oor for it.
It maun be duin the-nicht, awa frae the palace.
But mynd -- this thing haes nocht adae wi me!
A ken naething aboot it. Abuin aw,
juist mak a richt job o it, an be shuir
his son Fleance -- wha'l be alang wi him --
is putten doun anaw. His daith means juist
as mukkil ti me. Awa ye gang
an speak it owre atwein ye! A'l jyne ye again
in a wee whyle.
Both Murderers: Oor mynd's made up, ma Lord.
Macbeth: A'l be back in a meinit.
(He points to a door) Byde in the chaumer thare!
Well that's that. Banquo, an yeir saul
is boond for Heivin, it wul win thare the-nicht!
At the palace at Forres. Lady Macbeth, looking weary, enters with a servant.
L. Macbeth: Haes Banquo left the Coort?
Servant: Ay, ma leddie, but he'l be back again the-nicht.
L. Macbeth: Gae tell the Keing A'd lyke a wurd wi him!
Servant: Richt, ma Leddie!
L. Macbeth: Naething is gained an awthing's tint
whan oor wush cums true, but we tyne oor peace o mynd.
A bodie micht as weill the veictim be
as want content wi worrie owre the cryme.
Mercie, ma Lord, is that you yeir lane again,
wi nocht but dreich dreams ti keep ye cumpanie?
Ye maunna dwal on thochts that soud hae dee'd
alang wi thaim ye mump owre. Things we canna redd
maun aye be tholit. What's duin is duin.
Macbeth: The snake is mittilt but we haena killed it!
It wul hael for shuir an be a snake
again an ryse ti gie anither snak.
Heivin an yird can faw apairt afore
A eat ma meat again in fear, an spend
the nicht fleggit wi gruesum dreams! Ferr better
ti be deid nor pass ma days this gait.
Duncan is in his lair an he sleeps soond
eftir the fashious ups an douns o lyfe.
Naither steel nor puzzin, stramash nor tulyies,
at hame or abroad, can touch him nou.
L. Macbeth: Cum on, ma man, birk up an dinna luik
sae hattert! Ye maun be blyth an joco the-nicht
amang yeir guests!
Macbeth: (Makes an effort) An sae A wul, ma luve,
an A howp that you wul tae. An dinna forget
ti spier eftir Banquo! We're no sauf yit,
an we maun fleitch an mak oor faces masks
ti hyde what's in oor herts.
L. Macbeth: Ye maun stap this!
Macbeth: Ai, but ma mynd is fou o scorpions,
ma dou. Ye ken that Banquo an his son,
Fleance, is aye leevin?
L. Macbeth: They're no immortal.
Macbeth: Weill, that's a comfort. They can be daelt wi.
Ye can be blyth - afore the flichtermouss
haes flewn frae oot the belfry, an afore
the soond o clokbees fills the gloamin air,
a fell thing wul happen.
L. Macbeth: What's gaun ti happen?
Macbeth: Ai, but that.ye maunna ken, ma choukie,
or the deed is duin an it's tyme ti praise it.
Cum blinndin nicht, hap up the tender ee
o peitie, an wi yeir bluidie inveisibil haund,
blouter the lyfe that hauds me aye in fear!
Nou nicht faws, an hame the blek craw flees
til the mirk wud. The guid things o the day
begins ti dover owre, an aw the beiss
that hunts i the derk begins ti steir thairsells
an set aboot thair wark. A see ye wunner
at ma wurds, but juist you caum yeirsell!
Things wi ill sterts growes strang wi wickedness.
Cum wi me nou, ma Leddie, gin ye please!
Some distance from the Palace. Three murderers stand waiting.
1st Murderer: Wha telt ye ti jyne up wi us?
3rd Murderer: Macbeth.
2nd Murderer: He haes nae reason ti misdout us. He telt us
strecht what ti dae an gied us exak orders.
1st Murderer: Aweill than, Man, ye'd better jyne us!
The're aye sum straiks o daylicht in the wast.
This is the oor the hinnert traivlars spur up
thair horses til the nearest howf, an aye
the man we're waitin for is cummin nearer.
3rd Murderer: Listen, A hear horses.
Banquo: (Offstage) Gie me a licht thare, wul ye?
2nd Murderer: That's him! Aw the ither guests
is at the Coort areddies.
1st Murderer: He's left the horses.
3rd Murderer: It's amaist a myle.
That's what he dis forordnar. They aw dae that.
They walk frae here til the Palace yett.
(Banquo and Fleance enter, carrying torches)
2nd Murderer: A licht, a licht!
3rd Murderer: That's him, richt aneuch!
1st Murderer: Haud on thare!
Banquo: (Pleasantly) It's gey lyke rain the-nicht!
1st Murderer: Lat it pour doun!
(The first Murderer strikes out the torch while the others stab Banquo)
Banquo: Treacherie--! Rin, Fleance, rin! rin! rin!
You can revenge me. Ye scoondrels that ye are!
(He is killed. Fleance escapes)
3rd Murderer: Wha pat oot that licht?
1st Murderer: Wes that no the plan?
3rd Murderer: Man, we've only killed the ane. The son
haes joukit us an gotten clean awa.
2nd Murderer: We hae stickit the best pairt o oor job.
1st Murderer: Weill lat's awa, an tell what we've duin!
The hall of the Palace. A banquet has been prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords and attendants.
Macbeth: Ye wul aw ken yeir ranks an places here,
sae sit ye doun accordin. Frae the tap
til fuit o the table, a hertie walcum
til ye aw!
(Everybody sits down but Macbeth)
Lords: Oor thenks til yeir Grace!
Macbeth: (To L. Macbeth) A'l mell wi oor guests a wee an play
the hummil host. Wul ye byde at yeir saet
the-nou, an gar thaim feel at hame?
(Macbeth moves up and down the table giving a word here and there)
L. Macbeth: Ye are aw oor freins an walcum here --
wi aw ma hert.
(The Lords rise and bow. The first Murderer enters)
Macbeth: (To L. Macbeth) See, they are aw gratefu ti ye!
(He looks for a vacant seat) A see baith sydes is even.
A'l sit doun i the middle here. (He does so)
(He spots the Murderer)
Enjey yeirsells! We'l pass the cup roond nou.
(He takes a sip from his glass and hands it on)
Fill an fesh mair!
(He rises from the table to speak to the Murderer)
(To Murderer) The're bluid on yeir gizz.
1st Murderer: It'l be Banquo's than.
Macbeth: (Drily) It's better ootsyde you nor inby him.
He is richt deid?
1st Murderer: Ma Lord, his thrappil's cut
frae ear ti lug. A did that for him.
Macbeth: Ay, ye're the best o the thrappil whuttlers,
but whaever did the lyke for Fleance
is as guid. Gin ye hae duin that, tae,
ye're in a cless yeirsell.
1st Murderer: Syre, Fleance joukit us an wan awa.
Macbeth: (Holding his chest) Here ma ill turn cum back again!
Binna ye haed telt me that, A'd be
as soond as merbil, solid as a rock
an free as the air aroond us. But nou
A'm hauden in an tethert an thirlt
til unco douts an fears. But Banquo's awricht?
1st Murderer: Ay, ma Lord, he's quaet nou in a sheuch
wi twantie mukkil gulliegaws in his heid,
the laest o thaim aneuch ti feinish him.
Macbeth: Weill, monie thenks for that. The auld snake's deid.
The yunkir that haes joukit us micht growe
ti be anither ane in tyme, but nou
he haes nae teeth enou. Awa ye gae!
The-morn we'l speak again.
(The first Murderer leaves. Lady Macbeth rises and goes to speak to Macbeth)
L. Macbeth: Ma Lord, ye arena playin the host!
Even a chynge-houss denner is better hansilt.
Meat bi itsell is better etten at hame.
The walcum gies the meat its touk--
it's a puir dounsittin athoot it.
(The Ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place)
Macbeth: (Affectionately) A'm gled ye myndit me, ma jo!
(To the company) Bon appetit!
A guid appetite an a hale digestion!
Lennox: Wad ye no lyke ti sit doun, Syre?
Macbeth: Here anaith ae ruif we hae the-nicht
aw the noblest gallants in the land--
gin Banquo oor frein war onlie here!
A'd raither flyte him for be-in remiss
nor peitie him for sum mishanter.
Ross: He promised, Syre, he wad be here. He is
at faut. (Indicating a seat) Wul yeir Hieness grace us
wi yeir Ryal cumpanie?
Macbeth: The table's ful.
Lennox: But here a place reserred for ye, Syre.
Lennox: Richt here, ma Lord. Are the sumthing fashin ye,
Macbeth: (Pointing to the Ghost) Wha haes duin this?
Lords: Duin what, ma Lord?
(The Ghost makes signals)
Macbeth: Ye canna say A did it! Dinna you shak
yeir gorie taits at me!
Ross: Gentlemen, ryse! A dout his Hieness is no weill.
L. Macbeth: Sit dour, guid freins! Himsell is aften this wey.
He's been this gait ever sen he wes a hauflin.
Please byde in yeir saets an never heed him.
Gin ye tak tent til him, his ill turn wul lest
the langir. Juist eat up an ignore him!
(To Macbeth, angrily) Are ye a man at aw?
Macbeth: A'm bauld aneuch
ti luik at what micht fleg the Deil himsell.
L. Macbeth: What stuff! This fear is yeir imagination;
juist lyke yon fidderin dirk ye said led ye
ti Duncan. Thir fits an sterts - aw fanton fears -
wad better suit sum auld wyfe's haiverin tale
telt owre a wunter ingil. Think shame o yeirsell!
What are ye makkin siccan faces for?
The're naething thare ava but an empie stuil.
Macbeth: See thare - luik! Thare! What dae ye say nou?
(To the Ghost)
What dae A care gin ye can shougil
yeir heid an speak anaw? Gin sepulchres
an lairs can send us back the corps we buirie,
we'd better leave thaim til the houdie craws.
(The Ghost disappears)
L. Macbeth: What! Hae ye tint yeir manheid awthegither
in yeir follie?
Macbeth: As shuir as A staun here, A saw him.
L. Macbeth: What haivers!
Macbeth: (To himself)
Bluid haes been skailt afore langsyne
in lawless tymes. Ay an sensyne we ken
o murders owre terribil ti hear aboot.
Ae tyme whan the hairns war oot we kent
the man wad dee, an thare an end o't, but nou
they ryse again wi twantie gulliegaws
in thair heids an ding us frae oor saets.
This is mair fey nor onie murder is.
L. Macbeth: Ma Lord, yeir gentil freins is missin ye.
Macbeth: (Recovering himself)
A'm forgettin masell.
(To the guests) Ye maunna mismak
yeirsells owre me, ma wurthie freins. A hae
this fremmit ailment, but it's nocht ava
ti thaim that kens me weill. Cum!
(Raising his glass) Guidwull
an health til awbodie! Syne A'l sit doun.
Gie me a drap wyne, wul ye? Fill up ma gless!
(A servant does so)
(The Ghost returns)
Macbeth: May ye aw be blyth that's roond this table-heid,
an here til oor dear frein Banquo!
He's a sair miss here the-nicht. A wush
he wes wi us!
(Proposing a toast) Til awbodie than,
ti him we miss, an ilk til ilkane!
Lords: Til oor duties an ti this toast!
Macbeth: (Seeing the Ghost)
Awa an quut ma sicht! Back ti yeir lair!
Yeir banes is marraeless, yeir bluid is cauld,
an ye can see naething wi thae glowerin een.
L. Macbeth: Gentlemen, think o this as an antrin truibil.
It is nae mair. It's naething serious,
tho it is juist a bit o a skunner whyles.
Macbeth: (To the Ghost) What a man daurs, A'l dae.
Cum at me lyke a raukil Russian bear,
an airmor-happit rhinoceros, or teiger,
ye'l never see me flaunter a haet ava,
or cum ye back ti lyfe again an face me
wi yeir sword or dirk! Gin ye see me
trummil syne, ye can caw me a lassie bairn.
G'awa, ye ugsum shaidae! Ye arena here ava!
(The Ghost disappears)
Weill nou, it's gaen, an A'm a man again.
(To the guests) Please keep yeir saets!
L. Macbeth: (Reproaching him)
Aw pleisir's gaen an ye've fairlie spyled
this nicht wi yeir daftlik cairrie-on.
Macbeth: Can sic things happen athoot gliffin us?
The thing in ma mynd wes lyke a mukkil clood
cuiverin the lift abuin sum simmer's day.
Wumman, ye fairlie gar me dout masell,
whan ye can regaird sic unco sichts
an keep the naitral color o yeir chowks
whan mynes turns whyte wi dreid.
Ross: What sichts dae ye mean, ma Lord?
L. Macbeth: Dinna speir at him! He gits waur an waur
an quaistens mak him roosed. Nou A maun say
guidnicht. Never heed the ceremonie,
but gang at aince!
Lennox: Guidnicht, an A howp yeir Grace
is suin in better fettil.
L. Macbeth: A kynd guidnicht ti ye aw.
(She hustles them out)
Macbeth: It wul hae bluid! They say bluid wul hae bluid.
Heidstanes haes been kent ti move an trees
ti speak. The sleikitest o murderers
haes been fund oot throw means o pyot, craws
an corbies. What oor is it nou?
L. Macbeth: It's gey near mornin. It's haurd ti tell.
Macbeth: An what dae ye mak o Macduff no heedin ma biddin?
L. Macbeth: Did ye order him ti cum here, Syre?
Macbeth: A hear rumors anent him. In tyme
A'l order him awricht. A hae a spy
in aw thair housses. The-morn, first thing A'l gang
an see the thrie Weird Sisters ti hear what mair
they hae ti say. Naething wul hinner me
on ma road nou, for A'm sae steep't in bluid
bi nou the're nae wey back ava for me.
A hae sum unco ploys nou switherin
aroond in ma heid A maun dae swythe
afore A even think aboot thaim.
L. Macbeth: A dout ye want the mendin pouer o sleep.
Macbeth: Cum than, we'l gae ti sleep. Thir unco sichts
is but beginners' fears. A want experience.
Aw said an duin, we are but lairners yit.
The Palace at Forres. Enter Lennox and another Lord.
Lennox: (Speaking with mounting sarcasm)
Sae gin ye grie wi what A said ti ye,
ye'l mebbe draw yeir ain conclusion.
A say nae mair nor this aboot it:
the gracious Duncan wes byordnar freinlie wi
Macbeth, syne he wes deid. An the brave Banquo
stravaiged owre late at nicht, syne he wes deid.
Ye can think gin ye want, that Fleance killed him,
kis Fleance ran awa eftir he dee'd.
Thir days it's gey wanchauncie daunerin,
an whan ye think aboot it, whatna ugsum thing
it wes for Malcolm an for Donalbain
ti kill thair gentie faither? Whatnalyke thing!
An hou it vext Macbeth! Did he no strecht
awa, in richteous feim, dirk the twa chiels
that lay thare mauchtless in thair drukken dwams?
Wes that no weill duin, d'ye think?
What man wi onie hert ava wadna
been roosed ti hear thae louns forsay thair guilt.
Sae A wad say, Macbeth did weill.
an aw he did wes duin in wycelyke mainner.
Mynd ye, A think gin he haed Duncan's sons
doun in his dungeons -- A howp he never wul --
they'd suin finnd oot what cums ti fowk
that kills thair faithers -- an sae wad Fleance tae!
A've said aneuch! A hear Macduff is in
disgrace for missin the feast, an wurds he's said.
Whaur dis he hing oot thir days, dae ye ken?
Lord: A heartell Duncan's son, whas throne this man
haes stown, bydes at the Inglish Coort an that
he is unco weill traetit bi the guid
Keing Edward, for aw his sair mischaunce. That's whaur
Macduff haes gaen -- ti fleitch the halie Keing
ti send Northumberland an warlyke Siward
up til the North. Wi maucht frae thaim an God
abuin, we'l aiblins entertein oor guests
again, sleep weill at nichts, redd bluidie knyfes
frae feasts and suppers, pey leal respek.
We dwyne for want o sic things nou.
Macbeth is sae roosed at this report, he nou
prepares for war.
Lennox: Did he summon Macduff ti cum til him?
Lord: Ay, he did that, an Macduff aunsirt aff-haund lyke
"No me, Sir!" The caddie turns his back an hums awa
til himsell as mukkil as ti say, "Ye'll rue the day
ye gied me sic an aunsir ti deleiver!"
Lennox: Macduff wad dae weill, A think, ti byde awa frae Scotland.
Ai, a wush sum halie angel wad flie ti the Coort
o Ingland, an heize the day whan this kintrie
is free aince mair frae his accursit haund.
Lord: A wad send ma prayers alang wi him.
end of act III
A cavern, and in the middle a boiling cauldron. Thunder and lightning.
The Three Witches enter.
1st Witch: Thryce haes brindilt baudrons miaowed.
2nd Witch: Thryce an aince the hurcheon wheinged.
3rd Witch: The Hell-hag crys, "It's tyme, it's tyme!"
1st Witch: Roond aboot the caudron ging;
in the puzzint puddens fling.
Taid that unner cauldrif stane,
days an nichts haes sweitit bane,
a month o venim it haes swat,
sae byle thaim in the cantraip pat!
All: Doubil, doubil, darg an truibil,
fyre burn an caudron bubbil!
2nd Witch: Fillet o a mershland snake,
in the caudron byle an bake.
Ee o newt an tae o pug,
woo o bauken, tongue o dug;
edder's fork an slae-wurm's steing,
esk's hint-leg an houlet's weing,
for a spell o fekfu truibil,
lyke a Hell-bree, byle an bubbil!
All: Doubil, doubil, darg an truibil,
fyre burn an caudron bubbil!
3rd Witch: Scale o draigon, fang o wowf,
wutch's mummie, guts an gowf
o the raivenous saut-sea sherk,
ruit o hemlock, howk't in derk,
leiver o blasphemin Jew,
gaw o gait, an skelf o yew
flindert in the muin's eclipse,
neb o Turk an Terter's lips,
fingir o birth-thrappilt bab
sheuch-deleivert bi a drab;
ti gar the skink growe fierce an strang
pit teiger's puddens in alang!
All: Doubil, doubil, darg an truibil,
fyre burn an caudron bubbil.
2nd Witch: Cuil it wi a baboon's bluid,
syne the spell is steive an guid.
Frae the jaggin o ma thoums,
sumthing wicked this road cums.
Open, locks - whaever knocks!
Macbeth: Weill, ye saicret, blek an midnicht cailleachs-!
What are ye up ti nou?
All: A deed athoot a name.
Macbeth: A eggil ye, in the name o yeir airt,
whaurever it cums frae - ti aunsir me!
Tho ye lowse wunds that blatters doun kirks,
flettens trees an haisilt corn, blaws doun
haill castles on thair wairders' heids;
tho ye gar gurlie seas foonder gret ships,
an gar palaces cowp owre thair foonds;
even till heiliegoleirie seikens itsell -
aunsir me whan A spier!
1st Witch: Speak than!
2nd Witch: Spier!
3rd Witch: We'l aunsir.
1st Witch: Wad ye raither hear it frae oor mous
or frae oor maisters?
Macbeth: Caw thaim! Lat me see thaim!
1st Witch: Tuim in the bluid o a sou that's etten
hir nyne gryce! Thraw creish that's sweiten
frae a murderer's gibbet inti the lowe!
All: Cum, heich in Hell or laich,
kyth yeirsell an shaw yeir shape!
(There is a clap of thunder. The first Apparition is a head wearing armor.)
Macbeth: Tell me, unkent Pouer -
1st Witch: He kens yeir benmaist thocht.
Juist listen an say nocht.
1st Apparition: Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Bewaur Macduff!
Bewaur the Thane o Fife! Bewaur Macduff...
(The Apparition fades)
Macbeth: Whatever ye are, A'm mukkil obleiged ti ye
for the wairnin. Ye've jaloused ma fear richt,
richt aneuch. Juist ae wurd mair...
1st Witch: Ye maunna order him, but here anither fanton,
mair fekfu nor the first!
(A clap of thunder. A second Apparition appears. This is like
a blood-covered child.)
2nd Apparition: Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!
Macbeth: Gin A haed thrie ears, A'd hear ye!
2nd Apparition: Be bluidie, bauld an siccar. Lichtlie the pouer
o man, for naebodie born o wumman can
dae skaith ti Macbeth...
(The second Apparition fades)
Macbeth: Than leeve, Macduff! A hae nae need ti fear ye.
But na, juist ti mak siccar, ye maun dee.
Syne A can snak ma fingirs at the lees
that is engenert bi ma couardie fears.
Syne A'l sleep soond throu thunner.
(Thunder. A third Apparition now faces him - a child, crowned,
with a tree in his hand.)
What's this? It's no unlyke a ryal bairn
weirin a keing's croun on its littil brou.
All: Listen, but dinna you speak til it!
3rd Apparition: Be bauld as a lion, an prood, an never heed
the fowk wad vex or fash ye; or plot agin ye!
Macbeth wul never be brocht doun until
gret Birnam Wud is brocht forenent him
ti Dunsinane hill.
Macbeth: Weill, that wul never be!
Wha can muster forests or order trees
pou up thair monie ruits an quut the grund?
This soonds guid! Gin A need fear nocht
or Birnam Wud walks here, Macbeth wul shuirlie
leeve his weirdit span. Yit ma hert greins
ti ken but ae thing mair.
(To fading Apparition) Gin ye hae the skeil
ti tell: wul Banquo's aishan ever ring
owre this kinrik?
All: Ye maunna seek ti ken mair!
Macbeth: But A maun threip! Binna ye lat me ken,
A'l curse ye til eternitie. Lat me ken!
(The cauldron starts to sink and trumpets sound)
Whatfor is the caudron sinkin? What's that dirdum?
1st Witch: Shaw!
2nd Witch: Shaw!
3rd Witch: Shaw him!
All: Shaw his een, an vex his hert;
cum lyke shaidaes, syne depairt!
(There is a procession of eight kings with a blood-splashed Banquo
following, carrying a mirror)
Macbeth: (To the first)
Ye are owre mukkil lyke Banquo's gaist!
Awa wi ye! Yeir croun blinnds ma een.
(To the second)
Yeir hair ablo yeir gowden croun luiks lyke
(To the third)
Ye're geyan lyke the first twa!
(To the fourth)
No a fowert? This is a strain on ma een.
(A fifth and sixth pass by)
Are the nae end ti thaim?
(A seventh appears)
Anither? A seivint? A winna watch!
(But he keeps on looking in horror. An eighth appears with a mirror)
Mercie, an here the echt ane cums,
cairriein a keikin gless in his haund
ti shaw me monie mair. Whatna grouguss sicht!
(Banquo smiles and points to the kings, indicating that they are all his)
This maun be true. He's makkin oot thir keings
is aw his aishan. Sum's lyke keings o twa kinriks!
(To the Witches) Is this the truith o what's ti cum?
1st Witch: Ay, Syre, it's true. What are ye staunin thare for
luikin sae bumbaized?
(To the other Witches) C'mon, sisters,
we'l gie him a fling ti kittil up his speirit!
(There is music and the Witches dance a reel. Then they vanish.)
Macbeth: Whaur are they? Hae they gaen? A howp
this laithsum day wul aye be cursit in
(There is a sound of horses, then another sound)
(He calls) Cum in, wul ye - ye ootby thare!
Lennox: What can A dae for yeir Hieness?
Macbeth: Did ye see the Weird Sisters at aw?
Lennox: The wh-wha-? Na, no me, ma Lord! No me!
Macbeth: Did they no pass ye, gaun oot?
Lennox: Na, atweill ma Lord!
Macbeth: A wush the verra air they flie on wes smittil,
an demn aw thae that trust thaim!
A heard horse gallopin. Wha wes that?
Lennox: It wes twa-thrie men, ma Lord, ti bring ye wurd
Macduff haes fled til Ingland.
Macbeth: Fled til Ingland?
Lennox: Ay, ma Lord.
Macbeth: Ai, Tyme, ye are aheid o me in ma skame.
We maun act swythe ti keep abreist wi plans.
Frae this day furth, A'l jyne ma thochts til actions.
Here for a stert, lat this be thocht an duin:
A'l tak Duff's keep bi stamagast, faw doun
bedein on Fife an kill his wyfe an bairns
an aw his freins. A'l no blaw lyke a fuil.
Aw this A'l dae afore ma temper lowns.
But nae mair o sic sichts!
(To Lennox) Whaur are thir messengers?
Tak me ti thaim! A'l hae a wurd wi thaim.
Macduff's Castle in Fife. Enter Lady Macduff, her son and Ross.
L. Macduff: What haed he duin ti gar him leave the kintrie?
Ross: Ye maun hae patience, ma Leddie!
L. Macduff: What patience
did he hae? His flicht wes daft. Fear maks us
traitors even whan oor conduct disna.
Ross: It micht hae been mense raither nor fear
that gart him rin.
L. Macduff: Mense? Ti leave his wyfe,
his bairns, his houss, his teitils, aw ahint
in the verra steid he flees frae?
He maunna loue us! The thing's no naitral!
Even the littil jennie wran wul fecht
ti gaird hir nestlin bairns agin the houlet.
He's feart awricht. The're nae luve here ava.
Nae mensedom aither, kis his flicht is senseless!
Ross: Ma dear cuisin, ye maun control yeirsell!
Yeir guidman is aye strecht an wyce, an he
kens best what soud be duin thir unco days.
A daurna say mair, but the tymes is ill
whan men is traitors athoot kennin it.
Oor fear breeds rumors an what we fear,
we dinna ken. We're thrawn this wey an that,
lyke on a storm at sea. But A maun gang!
A'l say fareweill, but it wul no be lang
afore A'm back. Things wul suin tak a turn
for the better, ae wey or tither, A'm shuir.
Bliss ye, cuisin! Ai, ye are bonnie!
(He kisses her)
L. Macduff: (Looking at her son)
He haes a faither,
but he micht as weill be faitherless.
Ross: A maunna byde nae langir or ma feelins
wad owrehail me. Ye wadna want ti see
me mak a fuil o masell. A'l tak ma leave
L. Macduff: Son, yeir faither's deid.
What wul ye dae nou? Hou wul ye leeve?
Son: Lyke the birds dis, Mither!
L. Macduff: On wurms an flees?
Son: On oniething A can git -- the wey they dae.
L. Macduff: Puir bird! Wad ye no be feart for the net,
or bird-lime, traps or cages?
Son: What wad A be feart for Mither? They dinna
bather ti set traps for puirlyke birds.
Ma faither is no deid, whatever ye say.
L. Macduff: Ay, he's deid, richt aneuch. What wul ye dae
for a faither?
Son: What wul you dae for a man?
L. Macduff: Mercie, A coud buy masell twantie men at
Son: Wad ye buy thaim ti sell thaim again?
L. Macduff: Ye speak lyke a bairn, but ye are auld-farrant, tae.
Son: Wes ma faither a traitor, Mither?
L. Macduff: Ay, he wes that.
Son: What's a traitor?
L. Macduff: A traitor is a bodie that sweirs an tells lees.
Son: Is awbodie that dis that traitors?
L. Macduff: Awbodie that dis that is a traitor, an maun
Son: The men that sweirs an lees - maun they aw
L. Macduff: Ay, ilkane o thaim.
Son: Wha wad hang thaim?
L. Macduff: Mercie, the honest men.
Son: Syne the leears an sweirars is fuils. The're
aneuch leears an sweirars for ti baet the honest
men an hang thaim.
L. Macduff: Heivin help ye, ye wee monkey!
(She laughs but soon returns to her melancholy mood)
What wul ye dae for a faither?
Son: Gin he wes deid richt aneuch, ye'd greit
for him, an gin ye didna greit, A'd ken A wes
gittin a new faither suin.
L. Macduff: Ye're a wee blether, sae ye are! Ye fairlie
(A messenger enters)
Messenger: Bliss ye, Guidwyfe. Ye dinna ken me at aw,
but A ken you weill aneuch ti tell ye strecht;
ye're in the gretest danger bydin here.
Gin ye wul tak coonsel frae a hummil man,
dinna be fund here - leave wi yeir bairns
at aince. A dinna want ti glif ye lyke this,
but it wad be mair cruel gin A did less.
A'm shuir ye are in unco danger here,
Heivin help ye! A daurna byde langir.
L. Macduff: Leave? Whaur wad A gae? A've duin nae ill,
but syne A maun mynd that in this warld,
ill-daein is aften weill aneuch rewairdit;
an weill-daein seen ti be wanchauncie follie.
A've duin nae herm! What guid is it ti say
sic wumman's wards? They winna help me.
(Enter two murderers)
God, wha are they?
Murderer: Whaur is yeir Guidman?
L. Macduff: A howp he's no in sic a hellish hole
whaur the lykes o you micht finnd him.
Murderer: Yeir man's a traitor.
Son: Ye're a leear, ye mukkil toozie skellum!
(He beats his fists against the murderer)
Murderer: What, ye wee taidspue! A'l suin sort you,
ye traitor's littil podil!
(He stabs him)
Son: He haes killed me, Mither!
Rin awa, please! Please Mammie!
(He dies. L. Macduff runs out crying, "Murder! Murder!"
pursued by the murderers.)
England, near the palace of Edward the Confessor. Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
Malcolm: Lat's finnd sum lanesum neuk ti greit awa
Macduff: Shuirlie ferr better we
soud tak up airms lyke aw true men in defense
o oor mither-land. Ilk day that daws,
new weidaes maen an murn, new orphans skirl
or Heivin abuin graens back in seimpathie
wi Scotland, an greits for its dule.
Malcolm: What A ken A'l credit and that A'l murn,
pit richt the wrangs A can whan tyme is richt.
A daursay what ye say micht weill be true.
This teirant whas verra name birsils ma tongue
wes aince thocht honest: ye loued him yeirsell.
He haesna touched ye yit. A'm young, an mebbe
ye wul finnd that ye can dae yeirsell
a bit o guid bi sacrificin me.
For you, 'twad be the wycelyke thing ti dae.
Macduff: A'm no treacherous.
Malcolm: Ay, but Macbeth is!
Even an honest man lyke you micht be
forgien for hunkerin doun afore a Keing.
But ye maun forgie me, Man! Ma ill thochts
canna chynge the wey ye are. Angels
wul aye be bricht, an tho ill trys ti kyth
lyke guid, what's guid an true bydes aye the same.
Macduff: A think A've tint aw howp.
Malcolm: Mebbe that is
what gars me hae ma inner douts anent ye.
What gart ye leave yeir wyfe an bairns thair lane?
Aw that ye loue an haud maist dear, ye left
ahint athoot as mukkil as sayin fareweill.
(Macduff looks upset)
A mean ye nae offence, Macduff! Nae dout
ye ken best what ye dae yeirsell.
But ye'l unnerstaun A hae ti think
on ma ain safety, tae!
Macduff: (Overcome) Ay, bluid awa,
puir Scotland! Teirannie nou haes skowth ti bigg
on siccar foonds. Weir yeir ill-gotten croun,
Macbeth! The law is aw ahint ye nou,
an wha wul conter ye? Fareweill ma Lord!
A wadna be the rogue ye tak me for,
for aw Macbeth haes wun.
Malcolm: Dinna tak ill oot!
A dinna misdout ye awthegither.
Nae dout oor kintrie is dounhauden nou.
Ilka new day, anither gaw is eikit
til hir wounds. For aw, A'm shuir that monie
wad fecht ma cause. His Grace the Keing o Ingland
haes offert me a hantil thousan men.
But whan A hae this teirant's heid anaith
ma feet, or hank it on ma sword, Scotland
micht syne be waur nor ever she wes afore.
She'l suffer mair, in monie mair weys,
anaith the man that wul owrethraw Macbeth,
an ding him doun.
Macduff: An wha wul that be?
Malcolm: A mean masell! A ken that in masell
vyce is sae dour an sae deep-ruitit that gin
A haed the chaunce ti spread masell, Macbeth
micht kyth as whyte as snaw asyde me. The fowk
at hame wad see him lyke a lamb bi me.
Macduff: But naebodie 'mang the Deils frae Hell itsell
Malcolm: Ay, Man, A grant ye that.
He's murderous, lustfu, grippie, fauss an deceitfu.
He haes aw the fauts that haes a name;
but the're nae leimit til ma lust ava.
Yeir wyfes, yeir dochters, yeir matrons an yeir maids--
nane o thaim coud satisfy ma radgieness.
Naething wad staun in its wey. Ye'd be ferr better
wi Macbeth nor sic a man as that for Keing.
Macduff: Sic boondless radgieness can maister a man.
It's been the means o cowpin monie a throne.
As Keing ye'd hae the means ti tak yeir pleisirs
secretly. The're plentie wullin lassies,
an wha wad ken what hochmagandie gaed on
ahint yeir palace doors an in yeir chaumers.
Malcolm: But that's no aw. Forby, A'm unco grippie.
A dout A'd kill the Lairds af for thair lands
an ither men for their jewels an housses.
The mair A haed the mair A'd want for shuir.
A dout A wad steir up monie fauss quarrels
wi honest fowk ti slay thaim for thair gear.
Macduff: This grippiness is waur nor lust. Its ruits
gaes deeper nor passin lustfu appetites.
Sic greed haes been the daith o a hantil keings.
But never heed! A daursay ye coud be waur.
Scotland haes monie guid hairsts an they soud meet
yeir wants inby yeir Ryal policies.
Yeir ither vertues wul ootwye sic fauts.
Malcolm: Ma ither vertues? But A hae nane ava.
The vertues that becums a keing, lyke truith
an temperance, justice, mercie an generositie,
A hae nae haet o thaim in ma naitur.
Ma taste is for the fyner pynts o cryme.
Gin A haed pouer, A'l tell ye strecht, aw peace
an unitie at hame coud gang ti Hell.
Macduff: O Scotland, Scotland!
Malcolm: Dae ye think a man lyke that
is fit ti rowle? For that's what A'm lyke.
Macduff: Fit ti rowle? He isna fit ti leeve.
Puir Scotland! Whan wul ye see guid days again
wi a murderin teirant on the throne,
an here, the kintrie's richtfu heir lichtlies
himsell afore me an blasphemes his forebeirs.
Yeir ryal faither wes a sauntlie Keing;
the Queen yeir mither wes haurlie ever
af hir knees at prayer, an aw hir days
wes gracie in hir thochts. Sae A maun bid ye
fareweill. Thir ills ye say is in yeir naitur
is what haes cawed me oot o Scotland. Man,
ye've taen awa what howp wes left ti me!
Malcolm: Macduff, yeir feelings daes ye mukkil credit.
Ye hae lowdent ma suspeicions, an nou
A ken ye are a man o truith an honor.
Bi sic lyke joukerie pawkerie, Macbeth
haes aften tryit ti trick me intil
his pouer, but syne A'm no that easie fleitcht.
As God abuin's ma deemster, A wul be gydit
bi yeir coonsel. The monie fauts A said
A haed is ootlin til ma verra naitur.
A'm gled ti say A'm no lyke that ava.
A ettilt but ti try yeir lealtie oot.
A haena kent a wumman an A've never
gaen back upon ma wurd. A've haurlie wantit
what belangs me, lat alane ither fowk.
A wadna begek the Deivil til his frein,
an loue the truith as mukkil as lyfe itsell.
Thae lees anent masell is aw A've ever telt.
Aw that A am is here at yeir command.
Atweill, no lang afore ye cam, auld Siward
wi ten thousan fechtin men wes graithed
ti mairch for Scotland - sae nou we'l gang thegither.
Oor howps o victorie wul match oor cause.
What ails ye? Ye're no sayin oniething!
Macduff: It's ill ti tak this in. Ye hae me raivilt.
(A physician enters)
Malcolm: We'l speak mair eftir.
(To Physician) Is the Keing cummin oot suin, coud A spier?
Physician: Ay, Syre. A hantil puir dounhauden bodies
seek his cure. Mediciners canna help thaim,
but at his halie tig they suin see betterment.
(The physician leaves)
Macduff: What truibil is he on aboot?
Malcolm: It's cawed the Keing's ailment.
Macduff: O ay!
Malcolm: Keing Edward haes this wunnerfu gift.
A've aften seen him uise it sen A cam
ti Ingland, an naebodie kens but Heivin alane
the secret o his pouer ti mend aw kynds
o fell complaint. A've seen him sort a whein
o sairs an beilin lumps that surgeons haed
forleiten awthegither. Sum sicht it wes!
Macduff: What dis he dae?
Malcolm: He hings a gowden cuinyie
roond thair craigs the whyle he's prayin at thaim.
He haes the gift o prophesie forby.
His reign is blisst an he is fou o grace.
Macduff: Mercie, see wha's here!
Malcolm: Anither Scot, but A dinna think A ken him!
Macduff: Ma cuisin! Man, A'm gled ti see ye!
Malcolm: A ken him nou. God grant that suin we'l aw
be freins at hame again.
Ross: Amen ti that.
Macduff: Is Scotland aye the same?
Ross: Ochone, puir kintrie,
it haurlie kens itsell. Thir days it's lyker
a grave nor mitherland. Naebodie smyles ava,
binna the glaikit fowk that kensna what's gaun on,
an sechs an graens an skraichs is haurlie heedit.
Naebodie spiers for wham the deid bell's jowed,
an guid men dees afore thair weirdit tyme.
Macduff: Ye micht hae spared us the parteiklars,
but what ye say is true aneuch.
Malcolm: An what's the latest waesum news?
Ross: It's ill ti keep up wi.
The're sum new gruesum thing ilka meinit.
Macduff: Hou's ma guidwyfe?
Ross: She's weill.
Macduff: An aw ma bairns?
Ross: They're fyne tae.
Macduff: Macbeth haes left thaim in peace?
Ross: Ay, they war awricht whan A left thaim.
Macduff: Tell us mair, man! Ye're awfu stickin!
What's gaun on?
Ross: As A cam here ti tell ma waesum wurd,
A heard that monie wurthie men war up
in airms agin Macbeth. The sicht o you
in Scotland nou wad generate an airmie.
The haill kintrie wad ryse, an even the weimen
wad fecht, they are sae sair doun dung.
Malcolm: Aweill, they can tak hert. We're on oor road.
Gentie Keing Edward haes lent us guid Siward
an ten thousan men, an the're no a better sojer
in aw Christendom.
Ross: A wush that A coud bring ye mair comfort.
The wurd A bring is only fit for skraichin
til the desert air whaur naebodie coud hear it.
Macduff: What's this cummin nou?
Haes this adae wi me?
Ross: It haes, Macduff,
but it's the dule forby o ilka honest man.
Macduff: Gin ye hae wurd for me, dinna haud it
frae me onie langir! Oot wi it!
Ross: Macduff, A dout ye'l mebbe never forgie me
for tellin ye this.
Macduff: Ay, ay, A think A can guess.
Ross: Yeir castle haes been taen. Yeir wyfe an bairns
is slauchtert. For yeir ain guid, A winna
tell ye hou they dee'd.
Malcolm: Mercifu Heivin!
(To Macduff) Dinna pou yeir hat doun owre yeir een!
Say what ye feel! Ye maunna haud it in,
or it wul brek yeir hert.
Macduff: Ma bairns anaw!
Ross: Wyfe, bairns, sairvants - awbodie they coud finnd.
Macduff: An A haed ti be awa! Ma wyfe killed tae!
Ross: Ay, that's what A said.
Malcolm: Tak hert, Man!
Macbeth wul fairlie pey his lawin for this,
an that wul be the medicine for yeir dule.
Macduff: He haes nae bairns! Aw ma bonnie bairns?
The Hell-gled that he is! The mither an bairns
at ae fell flaucht.
Malcolm: Ye maun face it lyke a man!
Macduff: Aweill, the're naething ither A can dae,
but A maun feel it lyke a man anaw.
Did Heivin luik doun on sic a thing as this
an no defend thaim? They're aw struck doun for me--
they aw dee'd saikless owre the heid o me.
A onlie howp that nou they rest in peace.
Malcolm: Lat this dowie wurd sherpen yeir sword!
Ye maun turn yeir wae til fekfu angir
an uise it for kittil up yeir speirit!
Macduff: Syre, A coud greit lyke a bairn an rant wi ma tongue,
but better bairns soud greit nor baerdit men.
Guid God, lat thare be nae mair taigilment,
afore this fousum deil an me is brocht
thegither face ti face. Pit him a sword's length
forenent me! Gin he jouks free, Heivin
wul hae us baith ti forgie.
Malcolm: Weill said, Macduff!
Nou we'l awa ti the Keing an tak oor leave
afore we mairch. Macbeth is rype nou for a faw,
an the pouers abuin wul finnd the means
o blawin him doun. Tak hert frae this:
it's a gey lang nicht that kens nae dawin!
end of act IV
A room in the castle at Dunsinane. It is evening. Enter a physician and a lady in waiting
Physician: Kimmer, A hae sutten up wi ye for twa haill
nichts, but thare disna seem ti be onie truith
in yeir storie. Whan did she lest walk?
Lady: Ever sen his Grace gaed awa til the war, A've
seen hir ryse oot hir bed, thraw on hir nicht-goun,
open hir wee kist, tak oot a paper, fauld it,
skreive sumthing on't, read it, syne seal it
an gae back til hir bed again. An aw the tyme
she wes soond asleep.
Physician: That's maist unnaitral, ti hae the guid o hir sleep
whyle she is cairriein on wi hir day's darg. In thir
steirin dwams o hirs, haes she said oniething whan she
wes stravaigin aboot daein things?
Lady: The things she's said, A wadna lyke ti repeat eftir hir.
Physician: Ye can say oniething ti me. Atweill it's richt ye soud
Lady: A canna tell you or onie ither bodie what she said, for
A hae nae wutnesses ti credit me.
(Enter Lady Macbeth with a candle)
See, here she cums nou! This is the wey o hir. Ye can
see she's soond sleepin. Juist watch hir an byde oot o
Physician: Whaur did she git the caunil frae?
Lady: The war ane on the drawers' heid bi hir bedsyde.
She haes a licht asyde hir aye. She ordert it.
Physician: See, hir een is open!
Lady: Ay, but she's no seein oniething wi thaim.
Physician: What's she at nou? Luik, she's rubbin wi hir haunds.
Lady: That's what she aye dis. She's makkin oot she's weshin
hir haunds. A've kent hir whyles dae this a quarter o
an oor at a tyme.
L. Macbeth: (She looks closely at her hand) Here a smitch!
Physician: Listen til hir! She's speakin til hirsell. A'l skreive
what she says ti help me mynd it eftir. (He takes notes)
L. Macbeth: Oot demned smitch! Oot wi ye, A say!
(She remembers the bell struck on the night of Duncan's murder)
Ane. Twa. Ay, nou's the oor ti dae it.
(She shudders) Hell is mirklyke.
(Returning to her past conversations)
Keep a grup on yeirsell ma Lord!
What dis it maitter wha kens it, whan
naebodie daur quaisten oor authoritie?
Physician: Did ye merk that?
L. Macbeth: The Thane o Fife haed a wyfe an whaur is she nou?
(Rubbing her hands)
Mercie, wul thir haunds never be clean?
(Pointing her finger, as if at the banquet)
Juist less o that, ma Lord!
Ye connach awthing wi yeir flaffin.
Physician: Ay, A dout ye've fund oot sumthing ye soudna.
Lady: She's said sumthing she soudna, A'm shuir o that.
Guid kens what she kens.
L. Macbeth: The waff o bluid is aye thare yit. Aw the parfumes o
Arabia canna scent this littil haund.
(She sighs deeply) Ai Mercie, Ai!
Physician: Whatna sech that wes! Hir hert is unco sair.
Lady: A wadna hae a hert lyke hirs for aw hir Queenlyke
Physician: Weill, weill, weill
Lady: A howp ti God it is weill, Sir!
Physician: This truibil is ayont ma pouer ti sort. Mynd ye, A've
kent fowk that daunert in thair sleep an in the hinner
end, dee'd doucelyke in thair beds.
L. Macbeth: (Going over the past) Juist wesh yeir haunds!
Pit on yeir nicht-goun! Man, dinna luik sae wae-wan!
Hou monie tymes dae A need ti tell ye? Banquo is deid
an yirdit in his grave. He canna ryse again.
Physician: (Realising the truth) Sae that's it!
L. Macbeth: Ti bed, cum ti bed! The're sumbodie chappin at the
ooter yett. Cum, c'mon, gie me yeir haund! What's duin
canna be unduin. C'mon ti bed!
Physician: Wul she gang back til hir bed nou?
Lady: Ay strecht awa.
Physician: Ugsum rumors is aboot thir days.
Unnaitral deeds brings on unnaitral truibils.
A dout this Leddie wants a priest mair nor
she dis a doctor. May God forgie us aw!
Tak tent til hir an keep hir frae mishanter.
A'm fair dumfounert wi what A've seen the-nicht.
A hae ma thochts anent it, but daurna speak.
Lady: Guidnicht, doctor!
Open country near Dunsinane. Drums are heard and flags are flying.
Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox and soldiers
Menteith: The Inglish airmie is no ferr af, wi Malcolm,
his uncle Siward an the guid Macduff
at the heid. An they're aw eydent for revenge
agin Macbeth. Thair caw ti airms
wad kittil up the deid.
Angus: We'l meet up wi thaim near Birnam Wud,
verra lyke, frae the road they're airtin.
Caithness: Dis oniebodie ken if Donalbain
is alang wi his brither?
Lennox: A'm gey weill shuir he's no! A hae a leit
o aw the gentrie. Siward's son is thare
an a hantil ither hauflins ettlin ti pit
thair manheid til the test.
Menteith: An what's the teirant up ti nou, dae ye ken?
Caithness: He's stranglie fortified the castle at Dunsinane.
Sum fowk says he's gaen gyte awthegither,
he is in sic a tirrivee. Ithers
that hates him less, says he's reamin fou
wi richteous rage. Whatever he is, he's lost
the heid for shuir.
Angus: Ay, nae dout nou he feels
his secret murders claggin his guiltie haunds.
Ilka day that daws, he's fasht wi new faes
an fresh tulyies. The men he still commands
dis naething athoot tellin -- aw lealtie
an luve haes dwyned awa an dee'd in thaim.
A hear he disna craw sae crouss thir days
an his ryal robes hings lowss upon him.
He's lyke a nyaf dolled up in ettin's claes.
Menteith: Nae wunner his nerves is hattert whan his mynd
thinks burnin shame ti awn the lave o him.
Caithness: C'mon than, lat's mairch on an tryst wi Malcolm.
We'l lat oor bluid wi him, for he's the leech
wi siccar cures for Scotland's seikness.
Lennox: Amen ti that! Forrit than, staup on ti Birnam!
(They march off)
A courtyard in the castle at Dunsinane. Enter Macbeth, the physician and attendants.
Macbeth: (To an attendant)
A'l hear nae mair reports. Tak thaim awa!
A hae nae fear ava or Birnam cums
ti Dunsinane. Wha is this hauflin Malcolm?
Wes he no born o wumman? The speirits that kens
oor weirds haes said: "Ye needna fash yeirsell,
Macbeth. Nae man that's born o wumman wul ever
maister you." Awa wi ye, fauss thanes,
an mell wi Inglish wallie-draigils, for aw
the guid it dis ye! A hae nae douts. Ma hert
is soond. A'm feart for naething in this warld.
(A servant enters)
The Deil turn ye blek, ye fauch-faced loun!
What gars ye luik sae whyte aboot the gills?
Servant: Maister, the're ten thousan--
Macbeth: Ten thousan WHAT, ye gomeril? Geese, eh?
Servant: Sojers, Syre. They're cummin.
Macbeth: Awa ye gae, an cut yeir face an reiden it up
ti cuiver up yeir fear! What sojers, feardie?
Ye shaw that face aboot the place ye'l mak
awbodie feart. What sojers, whyte chowks?
Servant: The Inglish airmie, gin it pleases ye!
Macbeth: Gin it pleases me! Tak that face awa oot here!
(The servant runs off)
(Calling) Seton, HEY SETON!
(Dejectedly) A'm seik at hert whan A see--
(Shouting angrily) SETON, A SAY!
(Resuming his thoughts)
This is the fecht that wul mak or brek me.
A think A hae leeved lang aneuch. Ma road
throu lyfe haes brocht me til the wuthert yallae
leafs o Autumn, athoot the naitral blissins
o a bien auld age. Insteid o honor,
respek, luve, guid freins, A'm ti be serred
wi curses. Naebodie daurs speak his mynd,
but A ken they honor me fausslie wi thair mous
an curse me in thair herts.
(Seton answers his call and enters)
Seton: Yeir Hieness?
Macbeth: What's the latest wurd?
Seton: The're naething new at aw. It winna be that lang
afore the Inglish airmie is forenent the waws.
Macbeth: A'l fecht or the flesh is hackit frae ma banes.
Gie me ma airmor!
Seton: Ye're no wantin it yit, ma Lord.
Macbeth: A'l pit it on for aw. (To attendants) Send oot mair skouts!
Skour the kintriesyde! Hang oniebodie
that speaks o be-in feart!
(To the physician) Hou is yeir patient, Doctor?
Physician: She's no sae mukkil seik, ma Lord, as truibilt
wi ferlies in hir mynd that keeps hir
frae sleepin richt.
Macbeth: Weill, can ye no cure hir o that?
Div ye no ken hou ti sort a seik mynd?
Coud ye no yerk frae hir maimorie
sum dule that's ruitit thare? Coud ye no rub oot
the truibils that are skreivit on hir saul,
an wi sum douce drug, lowden hir fevert speirit?
Physician: In thir maitters, the're never mukkil we can dae.
The patient maun help himsell.
Macbeth: For me, ye can thraw yeir medicine til the dugs!
It's nae uiss ti me.
(To Seton) Cum Man, pit ma airmor on!
Gie me ma spear! Ye maun finnd oot mair for me!
(Seton helps him to fit some armor)
Dae ye ken, Doctor, the thanes is desertin me?
(To Seton, impatiently)
Wul ye hurrie up wi that airmor?
Gin ye coud finnd oot what ails this blissit kintrie,
ye wad shuirlie dae sum guid. Aiblins a richt
guid purge is what is wantit.
(To Seton, holding out a hand wearing a gauntlet)
Pul that af wul ye? Pul it af, A tell ye!
Whaur the rhubarb or seirop o feigs or sennae tea
that we coud uise ti flush thir Inglish oot
oor bowels for guid? Skour thaim awa foraye!
Ye've heard aboot thaim?
Physician: Ay, ma Lord, it wad been ill for me
no ti ken aboot thaim, what wi the steir in here.
Macbeth: (To Seton, impatiently refusing more armor)
Follae me eftir wi it! A'l no be feart
for oniething, or Birnam Wud cums ti Dunsinane!
Physician: (To himself) Ai, gin war A clear awa frae here,
nae gowd wad wyse me back again.
The country near Birnam Wood where the rebels have joined forces
with Malcolm and Siward. Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff,
Siward's son, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross and soldiers.
Malcolm: (To Menteith) Weill cuisin, A howp it winna be that lang
afore fowk's sauf in thair ain chaumers again.
Menteith: A've nae dout o that.
Siward: What dae ye cry this wud afore us?
Menteith: This is Birnam Wud.
Malcolm: Tell ilka man ti chap a brainch doun for himsell
an cairrie it heich afore him on the mairch!
That wul dern the bouk o the airmie
an gar the skouts gie fauns reports anent us.
Soldier: Richt awa, Syre!
Siward: It kyths frae what we ken,
Macbeth haes settilt himsell in Dunsinane.
He seems content for us ti lay siege til't.
Malcolm: A daursay that's his only howp. Whanever
they hae the chaunce ti rin, men o aw degrees
is nou desertin him. He's left wi conscript
wratches nou, an thair herts is no in the fecht.
Macduff: A think we'd better mak oor judgments whan
the fecht is owre. For nou, lat's plan for battle!
Siward: An nou, it winna be that lang afore
we ken hou things richt stauns. The tulyie wul settil
awthing for us -- sae on ti war!
(They all march off)
A courtyard in Dunsinane Castle. Enter Macbeth, Seton and soldiers.
Macbeth: (To a soldier)
Hing oot oor banners on the ooter waws!
An aye the cry is "Here they cum!" This siege
is lauchabil, this castle is sae strang.
We'l juist lat thaim byde here or they sterve
or catch the plague. Gin they haena been help't
bi oor deserters, we micht hae loundert thaim
in the field an sent thaim packin hame again.
(There is the sound of wailing offstage)
Mercie what's that greitin an skellochin?
Seton: It is the soond o weimen keinin, ma Lord.
Macbeth: Wul ye gae see what it is?
Macbeth: A've nearlie forgotten the taste o fear.
The war a tyme whan skraichin in the nicht
wad hae turnt me cauld aneuch, an graens
wad hae birsilt ma hair on end. A dout
A've haen ma fill o horrors nou. A've growne
that uised wi gruesum sounds an sichts yokit
wi murderous thochts, naething can fleg me mair.
Weill, what wes the yowlin aboot?
Seton: The Queen, ma Lord, is deid.
Macbeth: She soudna dee'd this tyme! The-day,
A haena skowth ti drie sic wurd as this.
The-morn, the-morn, an aye the-morn foraye!
Lyfe shauchils on frae day ti day until
the end -- on til the lest glisk o tyme itsell.
An aw oor yestreins haes lichtit gomerils
alang thair roads ti stourie graves.
Oot wi ye, short caunil! This lyfe is
a daunerin shaidae -- a sairie actor
that strunts an rants his oor upon the stage,
an syne is heard nae mair. It is a tale
telt bi an eidiot, fou o feim an dirdum --
but meanin naething!
(A messenger enters)
Messenger: Ma gracious Lord, A maun tell ye what
A'm shuir A saw, but kenna hou ti dae it.
Macbeth: Juist tell me what ye saw!
Messenger: Whan A wes on the watch at the heid o the brae,
A luikit owre ti Birnam, an syne A thocht --
A thocht A saw the haill wud stert ti move.
Macbeth: Ye leein skoondrel that ye are!
Messenger: Ye can be as roosed as ye lyke wi me
gin A'm wrang, but ye can see it cummin
for yeirsell, year Grace. The haill wud
is on the move, an it's airtin this wey.
Macbeth: Gin ye are leein, ye'l hang alive
on the neist tree or ye dee o hungir.
If what ye say is richt, A carena gin
ye dae the lyke for me. A'm lossin hert,
A dout, an A'm stertin ti credit the Deivil's lees
that soonds whyles no unlyke the truith.
(To himself) We maun oot an meet thaim in the field.
Gin what he says is true, we canna rin frae here.
An nou A stert ti wearie o the sun.
Doun, doun it gaes on me an aw ma days,
an aw the warld can faw apairt for me.
(To messenger) C'mon, dingil the alairm bell!
Cum wrack, cum ruin, at laest A'l staun
an dee wi airmor on ma back!
Before the gate of Dunsinane castle. Enter Malcolm, Siward,
Macduff and the army, carrying branches of trees.
Malcolm: Nou we're near aneuch. Thraw doun yeir brainches,
haud up yeir heids an shaw yeirsells as ye are!
(To Siward) Wul you, Uncle, wi yeir braw son, lead
the first attack? Wurthie Macduff an A
wul tak chairge o the lave, as we ettilt.
Siward: Fareweill than! Gin we rin inti the teirant's airmie
afore the gloamin, an we're no graithed
ti fecht him, we wul deserr ti be baet.
Macduff: Soond aw oor trumpets! Blaw thaim aw! Lat thaim
threip oot thair wurd o bluid an daith!
Part of the battlefield. Enter Macbeth.
Macbeth: A'm wappit til a stob lyke onie bear,
an A maun staun ma lane an fecht lyke ane.
Whatna lyke man is he that wesna born
o wumman, A wunner, for that's the kynd
A hae ti fear. Nane ither--
(Enter young Siward)
Young Siward: What's yeir name, Scotchman?
Macbeth: Ye'l be feart whan ye hear it.
Young Siward: No me -- no even gin yeir name wes hetter
on ma tongue nor onie ither name in Hell.
Macbeth: Ma name's Macbeth.
Young Siward: The Deil himsell coudna
say a name that's waur nor that ti me.
Macbeth: Ay, nor ane mair frichtsum ti ye, nae dout?
Young Siward: Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill teirant that ye are,
an nou A'l prove yeir leein wi ma sword.
(They fight and young Siward is killed)
Sae ye war born o wumman, eh?
A smirtil at swords an lauch at wappins sweyed
at me bi onie man that's born o wumman.
(Macbeth leaves. There are sounds of fighting. Macduff enters, seeking Macbeth.)
Macduff: This is whaur the dirdum cam frae.
(Shouting) Teirant, Shaw yeir face! A wadna hae
ye killed bi onie man but me, or the gaists
o ma wyfe an bairns wul hant me foraye.
A canna fecht wi sairie kerns whas airms
is fee'd wi siller. It's aither you, Macbeth,
or else A'l sheath ma sword again unuised.
Juist lat me finnd ye! A ask nae mair ava.
(Pointing) The're a bit o a stramash owre thare.
Ye're mebbe thare.
(He leaves. The sounds of fighting continue. Malcolm and Siward enter.)
Siward: This wey, ma Lord--!
The castle haes surrendert athoot a warsil,
an Macbeth's men is fechtin nou on baith sydes.
The Thanes is fechtin brawlie. The day seems yours.
Malcolm: Ay, a hantil men we thocht war faes
haes focht asyde us.
Siward: Ma Lord, we soud enter the Castle nou.
(They leave. Macbeth returns.)
Macbeth: As lang's A see ma leevin faes afore me,
the frichtsum gaws A mak wul suit thaim better.
A see nae sense in fawin on ma sword
an killin masell lyke Roman eidiots.
( He swings his sword. Macduff enters. Macbeth moves away from him.)
Macduff: Turn an face me, ye Hell-hoond, turn!
Macbeth: O aw men, A've tryit ti jouk frae you.
Gae back Man! Owre mukkil bluid o yours
is on ma saul areddies.
Macduff: A hae nae wurds.
Ma sword wul speak for me, ye bluidie skellum!
Macbeth: Ye waste yeir bumptious virr on me. Ye coud
juist as easie wound the air wi that sword
o yours as gar me bluid. Awa, Man, uise
yeir sword on sumbodie ye can hurt!
Ye'l dae nae skaith on me. It's weirdit that
naebodie born o wumman can tak ma lyfe.
Macduff: A'd pit nae faith in that. The Deil ye serr
forgot ti tell ye this: Macduff, ye see,
wes taen frae oot his mither's wame afore
Macbeth: A curse on yeir tongue for tellin me this.
The kerlin deils that jougils wurds is leears.
They bigg us up ti caw us doun again.
Macduff: Syne yield, ye couard, an leeve ti be
a syde-shaw ferlie. We'l stage ye lyke sum byuss
monster wi yeir picter on a pole,
an skreivit on it: "See here Macbeth the teirant!"
Macbeth: A winna yield ti kiss the grund ablo
young Malcolm's feet an thole the curses o
the canalyie. For aw that Birnam Wud haes cum
ti Dunsinane, an ye're no born o wumman,
A'l fecht on or the end. A'l no gie in.
Sae here ma shield afore me. Lay on, Macduff!
Deil tak the ane that crys aneuch!
(They leave, fighting. Malcolm, Siward, Ross and soldiers enter.)
Malcolm: A wush oor missin freins war sauf wi us nou.
Siward: In wars, the're aye sum men maun dee, but frae
what A see, the victorie is cheaplie bocht.
Malcolm: Aweill, Macduff is missin an yeir ain braw son.
Ross: Yeir son, ma Lord, haes dee'd a sojer.
He only leeved til he wan his manheid.
Nae suiner haed he proved it in the fecht,
nor lyke a man he dee'd.
Siward: Ma son--! Syne he is deid?
Ross: Ay, he's deid an cairrit af the field.
Sic a brawlyke lad---! He'l be a sair loss ti ye!
Siward: War his wounds at the front?
Ross: Ay, on the front o his corp.
Siward: Aweill, lat him be ane o God's sojers nou!
Gin A haed as monie sons as A hae hairs
on ma heid, A wadna want a fairer daith
for onie o thaim. His bell is jowed an thare
an end o it.
Malcolm: He's worth mair grief nor this,
an A wul gie it til him.
Siward: Na, he's worth nae mair. He dee'd weill,
they say, an peyed his score. Sae God be wi him!
Oho! Here cums sum comfort!
(Macduff enters with Macbeth's head on a pole)
Macduff: (To Malcolm) Hail Keing, for that's what ye are!
See here the cursit sorner's heid!
The warld can breathe again.
(Looking at the Thanes)
A see ye're rinkit bi the jewels in Scotland's croun.
Cum, jyne wi me in cryin: "Hail, Keing o Scots!"
Thanes: Hail, Keing o Scots!
(The trumpets sound)
Malcolm: (Holds out his arms)
A winna keep ye lang afore A stent
ma lawin til ye aw an settil ma accoonts.
Ma thanes an leal freins, frae this tyme furth,
we'l caw ye yerls, the first that Scotland's kent.
The're monie ither speils A nou maun dae.
We maun cry hame oor monie exiled freins
that fled ti jouk this butcher an his feint
o a queen. She taen hir ain lyfe A hear.
Awthing wul nou be duin in wycelyke tyme.
Sae nou ma thenks ti ye aw an til ilkane.
Ye aw maun cum an see us crouned at Scone!
This glossary is intended to be no more than an aid to those unfamiliar with reading Scots. In general, the Scots spellings used give useful guidance to the pronunciation. The equivalent meaning given in English represents the appropriate meaning in the text. Many of the Scots words covered have several other meanings, or synonyms, and these may be found in the Concise Scots Dictionary, edited by Mairi Robinson (Aberdeen University Press, 1985) or in The Scottish National Dictionary.
ava, at all
awricht, all right
cailleach, old woman
clokbees, flying beetles
fair faw, bless
fek, great quantity
gled, glad; hawk
hotch, fat woman
ilkane, each one
kimmer, old woman
langsyne, long ago
nyaf , worthless person
sensyne, since then
stamagast, unpleasant surprise
sweir, swear; reluctant
swither, be uncertain
tae, too; toe
the-nou, just now
tryst, meet with
whatnalyke, what a
yammer, harp on
yestrein, last evening
yokit, joined to
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Cite this Document
The Tragedie o Macbeth. 2020. In The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. Retrieved September 2020, from http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1672.
"The Tragedie o Macbeth." The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow, 2020. Web. September 2020. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1672.
The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech, s.v., "The Tragedie o Macbeth," accessed September 2020, http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1672.
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The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. 2020. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk.