Scottish poet, Alexander Hawkesville, recounts a humorous interlude involving McGonagall in his (Mr Hawkesville's) poem, But McGonagall Widnae Die.  It revolves around a time when McGonagall decided to perform MacBeth at Mr Giles's Theatre in Dundee.  The performance went as planned up to the moment that MacBeth is expected to die.  Unfortunately by this point McGonagall had become so envious by the acting abilities of the actor playing MacDuff that he refused to die.  You may click here to view Mr Hawkesville performing the poem at the Cumnock Music Festival.  Poem and video by kind permission of Mr Hawkesville.  The poem and video are under the following Licence, Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 UK: Scotland.

But McGonagall Widnae Die

Twas the end of a play they held that day
Where McGonagall played McBeth,
And the time was fast approaching when
He had to take his final breath.
McGonagall was feeling slighted
By the rather imperious McDuff
He felt put down and upstaged,
Well he’d had quite enough.
McDuff cried,
'I was not born of woman
A Caesarean birth was I.’
Then he thrust forward to kill the King
Who had believed a witches’ lie.
McGonagal dropped the sword from under his arm
‘Have at ye,’ was his cry.
The time  had come to leave the stage;
But McGonagall  widnae die.

His ego was in full swing as he
Slashed across the stage.
He was full of ire, passion and fire
Along with an unseemly rage.
‘Come McDuff, I’ll see tae you.’
This was his rallying cry.
McDuff, he thrust his sword again
But McGonagall widnae die.

A halo of hair around his head,
His crown slipping to one side
He wavered and staggered with
McDuff’s sword under his arm,
But on the floor he would not bide
‘Ye’re making a fool of yerself,’ hissed McDuff,
Looking as if he wanted to cry.
He pulled out the sword and tried again
But McGonagall widnae die.

‘I die, I die,’ cried the errant King
As he showed who was the boss
By staggering the full length of the stage
So the audience could savour
Their pending loss.
‘I die, I die you traitor,’
He told his luckless foil.
‘You are guilty of regicide, with my
Blood your hands you did soil.’
But McDuff was getting exasperated.
‘You’d better soon be dead.
Because if you keep this up m’lad
I’ll kick in your bloomin’ head.’
McGonall was no hero; he took on
An unearthly pallor
Crumpled up and fell, for he knew that
Discretion was the better part of valour.
As McGonagal lay there supine
The audience cheered and cheered.
The ‘corpse’ at once sprang back up again
Which was what McDuff had feared.
He gave an encore for another half hour
And I will tell you why:
The play might have ended, the King
Was stabbed
But McGonagal widnae die!

Alexander Hawkesville © 2010 Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 UK: Scotland.